


The Perfect Proposal: 7 Easy Steps

by birdsandivory



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, Frottage, Hilarity Ensues, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Time Skip, Romantic Gestures, a few background pairings mentioned, dorothea makes a great wingwoman, idiot boyfriends to idiot husbands, in the midst of this sweet sweet fic, romantic romping as we call it, some characters get a little spotlight here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory
Summary: Step 1: Find the perfect ring.Step 2: Think about the right words.Step 3: Plan a date you’ll both enjoy.Step 4: Be yourself.Step 5: Pick a sentimental location.Step 6: Try not to get hung up on the little things.Step 7: When you’re ready, take the plunge.Congratulations—you’re engaged!
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 24
Kudos: 123





	The Perfect Proposal: 7 Easy Steps

**Author's Note:**

> once again i have taken a "romantic, fluffy (insert pairing here)" commission that was supposed to be roughly 2.5k and turned it into a huge monster. i really had an amazing time writing this, though! i couldn't be more pleased with how it turned out and i hope you all enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. linhardt and caspar are SOULMATES, clearly.
> 
> [maki](https://twitter.com/orgiastique) beta-read this for me, of course! thank you so much for being my cheerleader ily ;;;;

*******

**So, you’ve fallen in love and you want to propose** , **but you’re just not sure how to go about it.**

_This is it,_ he thinks.

For nearly his entire life, Caspar has had Linhardt by his side. He doesn’t remember living a day without him— _not one!_ —because, somehow, they always found themselves connected. Letters between visits, long nights adventuring through the Bergliez estate (seldom the Hevring because Linhardt’s dad was a total drag), sneaking off without a word while their parents argued over one thing or another; there was never one without the other. 

It was like... they were _made_ to be together or something.

At least, that’s what Caspar believes. 

Everyone else must think so, too. No one was really surprised to find out about their almost too casual confession at the docks one night. In fact, most of the Black Eagles were convinced that they’d stepped into the Officers Academy hand-in-hand. Caspar guesses that’s not entirely _untrue,_ even though it was much more in the literal sense back then, when he spent many days dragging a drowsy Linhardt back to his room, fingers tightly clasped together. 

Now when they hold hands, it _means_ something. Not that it didn’t mean anything before, but Caspar knows it’s different than it used to be. It’s proof that he can have it all as a second son, that he’s paved a way to his own future without anyone’s famous house name, and found a love that even their fathers can’t tear apart with all of their _holier-than-thou_ intra-empire bullcrap.

It’s special. 

And maybe no one knows what’s going to happen next, but Caspar hopes that whatever he has to face in the future, he can do it knowing that Linhardt fully intends to spend the rest of his life with him.

That’s why _this is it._

Caspar picks up a delicate bouquet of pink flowers with a grin.

He’s going to ask Linhardt to marry him today.

Ashe had arranged flowers for him earlier that morning: a whole bunch of pretty ones from the bed he’s growing in the greenhouse, wrapped together with a long piece of twine. Caspar recognizes a few roses of different shapes and sizes, but beyond that, he doesn’t know much of the others—maybe they were peonies? Or maybe tulips? He’s not sure, but Ashe had promised that his message would be loud and clear regardless, and that’s really all the assurance he needs. 

Exhaling through his nose, Caspar looks up.

“Alright, girl, you ready?”

A puff of hot air blows into his face, the large snout of Petra’s wyvern, Abzul, huffing as its wings twitch—glassy, golden eyes staring at him with all the piercing of a well-forged spear. He shivers at the narrowed glare, half-thinking he should apologize for some reason; maybe Abzul is actually a dude, but Caspar doesn’t really have the time or expertise to verify.

Nonetheless, Abzul lowers its head, waiting patiently for him to climb onto the saddle. He pulls himself up clumsily and with way more effort than he expects (though, he's pretty sure it's because his rental steed likes to watch him suffer), grabbing the reins and shoving his boots into the footholds.

Without much warning, they’re flying through the air.

Caspar keeps one arm curled around the flower bouquet as the other tries (sorta) to steer Abzul through the clouds. Their destination isn’t far—Linhardt should be at the docks by now, led there tactfully by Petra. It’s the perfect place to propose, after all. Linhardt loves the fishing grounds and Caspar can’t really think of another place in the monastery where a wyvern would have the space to spread its wings. Of course, he could’ve done without Abzul, but his proposal just wouldn’t be the same. 

This has to be _big._

And what’s bigger than a wyvern?

When Caspar sees the head of the Entrance Hall, he shoves the flower bouquet into the crook of his arm and grips the reins in both hands. Bending his knees and making sure his boots are flat against the saddle, he lifts himself onto his feet, looking out at the sky only when he’s stable.

Tossing his head back, he lets out a high-pitched laugh.

He’s standing on a wyvern’s back. 

While it’s _flying._

“Hell, yeah! I knew this was a great idea—look at us, Abzul, we’re on top of the wor—!” 

Caspar lurches forward suddenly, Abzul’s sharp turn catching him off-balance. His feet scramble for purchase and once he’s planted, he drops the reins from one of his hands and reaches for the bouquet slipping from his arms.

It flies right out of his grasp.

“Awh, no!” Caspar looks back at the flowers tumbling through the air and has half a mind to steer Abzul into doubling back so he can catch them before they hit ground, but the twine caught in the plates of his armor is proof enough that it would be a lost cause. 

Turning back around, he catches sight of the pond; it’s a little too late anyway. 

“It’s cool, it’s cool,” he calls over the sound of the whipping wind. “We’re still gonna nail this, right, Abzul?” The wyvern huffs, an amused sound that makes Caspar think he’s being laughed at. “Oh, yeah, _thanks for that._ ”

But flowers or no flowers, Caspar’s got a mission to complete, and he doesn’t let flying bouquets or a giant, armless _bully_ get him down. He can already see Linhardt lounging on the docks and talking to Petra, the green and purple spots that they are becoming much more human as he guides Abzul down over the pond. 

Everyone stops in their tracks and the interest they have in Caspar right now is better than he could’ve imagined. 

He grins victoriously. 

More than anything, he wants everyone to know just how much he loves his green spot, and what better way than for them all to witness his proposal?

“Caspar?” 

Linhardt stares up at him curiously. 

Caspar gives Abzul the signal to hover over the water, sighing through his nose as he plants one of his hands over his chest in a Ferdinand-esque way, every syllable spilling from his lips meaningfully slow. And ear-piercingly loud. 

“On this seventh day of Harpstring Moon, I ask you—!” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Linhardt von Hevring—!”

A surprised yelp and a splash follows the mighty beat of Abzul’s wings, and Caspar snaps his head down to look into the pond, a head of silver hair breaking waves as Ashe’s coughs water out of his lungs. 

“Oops, sorry, Ashe!” Caspar kneels down onto the wyvern’s saddle, taking the reins and trying to steer Abzul toward the middle of the pond to avoid hitting anyone on the surrounding wall. “I didn’t mean to—”

A heavy gust knocks over buckets of fishing bait, and Caspar tugs on Abzul’s reins to get him— _her?_ —to ease away from the docks, but a flap of its wings sends the fish merchant’s wares flying, doing more harm than good.

“S-Sorry about that!”

“Caspar.” The sound of a clipped voice steals his attention and Caspar looks up toward the docks, emerald strands of Linhardt’s windswept hair flying into his mouth as he calls over the sound of waves crashing into stone. “What are you doing?” 

“Stay right there!” Caspar tightens his grip on the reins and winds back, Abzul’s wings no longer blowing gusts below but outwards toward the people; tossing skirts up, uprooting stands—throwing Yuri off balance and into Ashe who goes straight back into the pond with him after just climbing out.

Only the sound of Petra’s shouting seems to calm Abzul, the wyvern lowering itself back over the pond, wings slowing down just enough to keep them both in the air, but not so fast that the winds they produce cause any more trouble. 

Caspar peeks out over Abzul’s head at the commotion he’s caused—costly damages, everyone’s confused, angry gazes—and locks eyes with Linhardt. In a last-ditch effort, he swallows thickly, casting him a nervous smile. 

“Uh—Linhardt von Hevring...?”

“ _Yes...?_ ”

Before he can say anything else, Abzul bucks him off of the saddle and into the pond below.

Caspar’s eyes clamp shut the moment he hits the water, only opening when the waving of his arms stops him from sinking and he’s able to swim back up again. The weight of his armor makes him regret having worn it that day, but not as much as he regrets possibly every single decision he’s made since he woke up this morning. 

Maybe he should just sink back to the bottom of the pond.

When Caspar swims his way to the edge, Dorothea’s there to help him up, hair mussed and eyes watering slightly. He feels a little guilty seeing her—she must’ve gotten caught up in the gusts. 

And looking around, he can’t even say it was worth it; there’s fishing bait everywhere and Ashe looks like someone just kicked his puppy, completely drenched from falling into the pond. Petra’s already mounted her wyvern’s saddle, looking down at him apologetically for a split second before spurring Abzul off into the air and probably back to the stables. Yuri’s completely disappeared and is definitely planning to gut him in his sleep...

Even Linhardt’s nowhere to be found.

“Your splash practically soaked him,” Dorothea says, reaching up to pull her long locks over her shoulder. “Lin walked away pretty annoyed.”

“Awh, jeez...” 

“Caspar.” Her voice is almost _too_ sweet, and Caspar really thinks he’s in for it now. “What _was_ that?”

“I was trying to uh—uhm...” Shoving his hands into his hair, he groans just recalling the last ten minutes. “Agh—jeez!”

“Use your words, Caspar.”

“It’s just—I was—I was _try-ing_ to propose!”

“Oh my gosh—really?!” Dorothea’s eyes light up, her smile stretching into a bright grin as she bounces suddenly on her heels. Bubbling with excited laughter, she gives Caspar a friendly smack on the shoulder. “Finally! I’m _so_ happy for you.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t work out like I hoped it would...” he says, his words tapering off into incoherent, disappointed muttering. “At all.”

“It definitely didn’t,” she adds, and before Caspar can even tell her it would’ve been _nice_ of her to soften the blow, Dorothea takes his hands. “But, all things considered, I’m still so glad you’re doing this.” Squeezing his fingers lightly, she leans forward with a gleeful simper. “ _So—_ where is it?”

“Where’s... what?”

“The ring!”

“Ring?”

“Wait.” Dorothea shakes her head, skeptical. “You were trying to propose without a ring?”

Caspar shrugs. “I thought I could just give him something he likes. Linhardt likes stuff he can use.”

“That’s... actually really thoughtful,” she says with a soft smile and he’s almost proud that something seemed right in someone’s eyes. “But—rings are your way of telling the world he’s off the market for good!”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Biting the inside of his cheek, Caspar weighs his options; he knows for sure he’s never seen anyone get engaged with a ‘practical gift’ they picked out... “I guess I should get a ring.”

“Absolutely! And then you can plan an even _better_ proposal.”

“That was literally the best idea I had,” he whines, throwing his head back. “I’m no good at all this over-the-top romantic stuff, you know.” 

“It doesn’t have to be over-the-top for it to be romantic, Caspar,” Dorothea says matter-of-factly, and after a moment, a quiet gasp escapes her. “You _know,_ since we _are_ big sis and big bro—”

“Please.” Caspar’s eyes screw shut and he raises a hand to stop her from saying anything more. “Please don’t remind me of that right now.”

“Fine—but just hear me out,” she presses, and then: “Why don’t you let me help steer you in the right direction? I promise, you’ll be engaged in no time.”

“Really?” Perking up at the thought, Caspar fists the straps of his armor to keep from punching the nearest inanimate object. “That would be—I mean— _awesome._ ” His babbles bubble into giddy laughter and he grins at Dorothea, suddenly determined. “What do I do?”

Dorothea smiles, pleased.

“Just listen to me and follow my lead.”

**With this comprehensive guide, you’re guaranteed to make him yours in just a few easy steps.**

  
  


*******

  
  


**Step 1: Find the perfect ring.**

None of these rings _feel_ like Linhardt.

Caspar picks up another gaudy piece—a thin, gold ring with three round stones all matching in size just sitting across the band. It looks both fragile enough to break by accident and big enough to use as an iron knuckle if he got cornered in a dark alleyway. The next ring isn’t much better; inlaid with a huge ruby, a bunch of tiny diamonds surrounding it (at least, Anna _said_ they were diamonds). It looks like something his mother would wear and Caspar scrunches his face at the thought of it around Linhardt’s finger. 

No—these just won’t work. It has to be a plain, polished piece. Stones are fine, but nothing too out there. Linhardt would be happier with something more practical, for sure. None of the rings in front of him are anything like that, and he almost regrets not taking Dorothea up on the offer to help him pick one out. 

He wants to do this on his own, though. 

It wouldn’t be right any other way. 

Caspar groans, frustrated.

“Hey—you finished yet?” Looking up from the display, Caspar sees Anna staring down at him impatiently. She shoves her hands onto her hips at his grumbled ‘no.’ “I got you all the best stuff I could find and not _one_ catches your eye?”

“I dunno, Anna,” he sighs, watching her pick up an engagement band with a _huge_ green stone on it. “None of these really scream Linhardt.”

“But—hey! Check this one out—it’s a _real_ Galatea emerald,” she says, snapping her head up suddenly and shouting over his head. “That’s right, folks—you heard it right from the merchant’s mouth. For the best deal around, you can put a _real_ Galatea emerald on your lady—or lad’s—”—she winks down at him—“finger!”

The crowd around him begins chattering and a few girls step forward, looking through her wares.

“See?” Anna nudges his arm, dangling the ring in front of him. “It’s a winner, for sure!”

“I think I’m good, Anna.” He purses his lips. “Maybe you can find me a few more rings and I’ll come back tomorrow?”

“This was a _special request,_ you know—there won’t _be_ a tomorrow. I sell rare items, not jewelry!”

“Come on! Just do this one thing for me?” Caspar pleads. “I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. I’ll even buy everything full price from now on—”

Distracted by a sudden flicker of movement at his side, Caspar looks over to see a girl about his age looking over Anna’s display. She hums quietly to herself, sometimes picking up a piece of jewelry here and there to get a closer look at a gemstone or particular design. It isn’t the fact that she’s window shopping that catches Caspar’s attention, but the something small and delicate twinkling around her ring finger that his eyes latch onto. 

It’s gold, Caspar notices, stark against her pearly skin—and nothing fancy, but somehow, it’s just what he’s been looking for. 

“Hey,” he says abruptly, losing a little nerve when she looks up at him, blinking owlishly. She almost reminds him of Bernadetta, but without the skittishness of a startled animal. Her hand is paused mid-reach, as if she was just about to pick up another ring, and Caspar seizes the opportunity to take her hand in his. “Can I see something for a second?”

“M-My hand?” 

Caspar doesn’t wait for a definitive answer, flattening his palm against hers and comparing them to each other. He notes how short hers are compared to his, how he can curl his fingertips over them, and how they lack the length he’s used to. Letting his fingers dip into the spaces between her own, Caspar turns her hand in his, making an estimate of their width.

There are too many differences—her hands are a little too rough to be anything like Linhardt’s, they’re not as long and not nearly as slender—but Caspar’s sure the ring will be a good fit.

“What are you...?” Snapping his head up, Caspar is met with a puzzled look, and he tries to justify his actions by tapping his finger against the flat of her ring. 

“Can I have this?”

“You want my ring?” She blinks her eyes in surprise, looking down at the band with uncertainty. It’s small and dainty, but has a nice looking shine to it, and the stone inlaid is the perfect size. “I don’t know... I—”

“Then—” Caspar looks down at Anna’s display, thinking that one of these rings has to count as a good replacement. If the one around her finger is an heirloom of importance or whatever, Caspar doesn’t know; he doesn’t really get the sentimentality of material things, and he’s sure memories are what matters most anyway. If he can just convince her... “Then let me buy you a new one!”

“A-A new one?” Slowly, she pulls her hand from his, curling it against her chest. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Yeah, why?” Anna adds, looking at him strangely.

“Because—” Caspar gives Anna a sharp look before turning back to the lady in front of him, pointing at himself with his thumb before grinning. “Because you won’t need it anymore after you see the one _I’m_ gonna buy you.” 

Eyes lighting up in understanding, she looks down at the ring for a long moment, twisting it around her finger with her thumb. “So... you want me to wear the ring _you_ buy me?”

“Yeah—sure!” Caspar gestures to the display before him, Anna grinning wide and nodding her head encouragingly in the background, apparently over boring holes into the side of his head. “You can have any one you want, just...”

“Just not _this_ one.”

“Right,” he insists. “A fair trade!”

Her cheeks bloom a bright pink and she suddenly grows quiet, though Caspar can definitely say he understands—it’s hot as hell outside—but he’s patient in waiting for an answer, so long as it ends with him getting that ring. And when the girl finally nods her head and smiles up at him, he knows he can cross it off his list. 

“Okay,” she relents, looking down at the array of rings Caspar thinks are way too gaudy to be on anyone’s hand. Anna stands before them, the emerald from earlier on her finger, and she wiggles it into view every once in a while, catching the girl’s attention. 

“I really like the Galatea emerald...” she says after a moment, looking up at Caspar from beneath her lashes—what a shy person. “W-What do you think?”

“Me? Oh, it’s—uh, great! You want that one?” 

“I think so...”

“I’ll take it, Anna!”

“I’m not complaining one bit!” Anna’s eyes are practically sparkling and she flashes the ring with a brilliant smile. “That’ll be three thousand.” 

“What?!” Caspar slams his hands against the display table, snatching them back like fire when he’s met with Anna’s glare. “That’s so much!”

“ _Three thousand—_ take it or leave it.” 

“But I could get a silver axe for less than that!”

“You wasted a lot of my time today, Caspar. I demand compensation!” She puffs out her cheeks, brows furrowing. “Time is money, after all.”

He squints his eyes up at Anna, watches as she defiantly lifts her chin, holding one hand out for her gold as she dangles the ring in the other.

“ _Fine,_ ” Caspar sighs, shoving a hand into his pocket and pulling out a small bag; he painstakingly counts out his gold before dropping it into her hands. Anna snatches her coin back with a pleased hum, tongue poking out from between her lips as she double-checks the pieces he gave her. Once she’s satisfied, she tosses him the ring.

“A pleasure doing business with you!” 

Grumbling under his breath, he takes the emerald between his fingers with a sniff. _It’s fine,_ he tells himself—for Linhardt, he would’ve spent a lot more money than that.

“Maybe I should’ve asked for something else,” the girl beside him says, and for a second, he almost forgot she was there. 

Caspar shakes his head, holding out the ring. “Nah, don’t worry about it. This is more important.”

Silently, she looks between him, the ring, and her own hand several times before sliding the band Caspar wants off of her finger and giving it to him. She reaches out her hand expectantly. He doesn’t think much of the gesture, grabbing Linhardt’s new engagement band and sliding the Galatea emerald onto her finger.

“Perfect fit,” he says cheerfully, pocketing his reward with a triumphant smile. “Thanks for the ring!”

Caspar doesn’t think about the way the girl watches after him when he waves goodbye and heads back into the monastery, how she’s suddenly surrounded by a group of squealing friends—he doesn’t think about anything other than Linhardt and getting to be the one to put a pretty ring on his finger.

He leaves the marketplace with newfound hope.

  
  


*******

  
  


**Step 2: Think about the right words.**

Caspar takes a deep breath as he gets down on one knee.

The ring is between his index and thumb, pretty and modest, but shining all the same, and just holding it like this excites him. Caspar used to think asking Linhardt to marry him would be simple, that it was as easy as every other conversation they’ve ever had—their natural next step—but it’s not. It gives him nervous tingles, like he’s about to run headfirst into enemy territory without knowing what’s coming next, and even though it definitely doesn’t feel _easy,_ he likes it. He likes the anticipation that makes his body tremble from his fingertips to his toes.

Looking up from where he kneels, he can’t help but smile.

“Linhardt,” he begins, taking a deep breath, “I really— _really—_ like you.”

The room becomes eerily silent, almost as if he’s the only one there, and Caspar’s light-hearted smile falls from his face as he looks up from his spot on the floor.

“Was that okay?”

Dorothea shifts where she’s sitting on her bed, brows furrowed and lips pursed. There’s something about her narrowed gaze and the way she switches legs, uncrossing them and then crossing them again—one over the other—that makes him shrink under her judgement. 

“Maybe something a little more... romantic?” 

Caspar groans, falling back onto the floor. “Saying I like him isn’t romantic?”

“Well, not when it comes to a _marriage_ proposal. It’ll make him feel like your feelings aren’t strong enough,” she sighs. “If you’re asking someone to marry you, it’s because you love them. What does your heart say?”

“My heart?” Caspar reaches up, rubs the back of his head. “Uh—oh!” Scrambling on the ground, he stumbles onto one knee again; the other one this time—the bedroom floor is _hard._ Dorothea watches him closely as he lifts the ring, presenting it to her. “Linhardt...” He clears his throat. “I’d do anything for you.”

“Good!” Dorothea claps, bouncing in her seat, and Caspar’s all the more encouraged. “Keep going!”

“I love you so much that I’d—I’d—” Looking down at the ring in his hand, he curls his fist around it, eyes lighting with resolve. “I’d beat up anyone you wanted me to!” Caspar hops to his feet, spreading his arms out wide. “Anyone, just say the word—I’ll fight _everyone!_ ”

“Oh, boy,” Dorothea says with a fake-sounding laugh. “Why does it feel like you’ve been spending _way_ too much time with Hubie...”

Caspar deflates. “Agh, Dorothea—this is too hard!”

“You just need a _little_ more direction!” Painted lips twist this way and that as Dorothea twirls a finger through a lock of her long, dark hair, and Caspar finds solace in the fact that she looks funny doing it. It doesn’t last long, however, because she stands suddenly, holding out her hand. “Let me be you for a moment.”

Caspar furrows his brows, not so sure he likes that plan, but Dorothea _is_ the romance expert here, so he hands over the ring without a complaint. “And you want me to be Linhardt?”

“Yep, we’ll just have you learn by example!” Bunching up her dress, she gets down on one knee, and Caspar feels a rush of nerves flow through him. It feels odd to be on the other side of this, whether it’s pretend or otherwise, and he vaguely wonders if Linhardt will feel the same way. “Now, pay attention,” Dorothea instructs, the ring shining up at him from between her fingers as she reaches up to hold his hand. “You take his hand in yours—softly—not too tight.”

“Sorry.” Caspar loosens his grasp with a bashful smile, having wrapped his hand wholly around hers and trapped it in a vice grip in his sudden anxiousness. He chooses to focus on holding her hand gently, imagining that it’s Linhardt’s; her fingers are just a touch too thin and her nails are too perfect, but it does the trick and relaxes him anyhow.

“Don’t worry about it, let’s just keep going,” she directs. “Now, you look into his eyes.” He does just that, Dorothea’s verdant hues big and kind, but they’re practically staring into his very soul as she plays the part, and when she smiles at him ever so softly, he looks away, embarrassed. Very weird—definitely not Linhardt. “Caspar—look into my eyes!”

“R-Right,” he laughs nervously, drawing his gaze slowly back up to hers. If he squints, he can barely see how lovingly she’s looking at him. “Okay!”

“Then, you tell him how you really feel—like this.” Dorothea takes a deep breath, her expression becoming even more tender, and Caspar’s reminded that she’s a true actress—that she once belonged center stage. It’s a little alarming, how drawn he suddenly feels, waiting for her to speak. She does so softly—“Linhardt, from the moment we met, I knew I would love you forever,” she says, sliding the ring onto his finger before placing her hand on his. It doesn’t fit past the first knuckle. “There’s not a day that I don’t think of you. And if you would do me the honor of making me the happiest man in the world, I promise you that I’ll make you the happiest woman... Edie, will you marry me?”

Caspar’s taken aback for a second, shaking his head as if he hadn’t heard right, because he’s _pretty sure_ Dorothea wasn’t talking about Linhardt for half of that speech. 

He grins.

“Did you just say _Edie?_ ”

Green eyes widen at the question, and Dorothea snaps her head up with urgency, pulling at her hands as he tightens his grip. “N-No—nope! Not me!”

“Holy crap—you _like_ Edelgard!” Caspar laughs at the top of his lungs, letting Dorothea snatch her hands away with a huff. “Her Majesty, _Emperor Edelgard._ ”

“So?!” Embarrassed, she scrambles up from the floor, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Hubert’s totally gonna kill you—like, for real!”

Dorothea’s arm wrapping around the back of his head and dragging him down barely drowns out his giddy chortles and Caspar can’t stop himself from babbling incoherently under his breath about how she should start sleeping with one eye open. “Keep it down! This isn’t about me, it’s about _you,_ Mister I _Like_ My Future Husband.”

Caspar clamps his mouth shut with a clack, sulking a bit as he mumbles, “hey... quit it.”

“Look, the _point_ is that you need to think carefully about what you’re going to say,” she sniffs, releasing him as she smooths down the front of her dress and stands prettily, as if she hadn’t dragged him into the perfect noogie position at all. “Lin wants to know that you can’t live without him—that he’s your past, present, and future,” Dorothea offers, gesturing to the ring on his finger; he stares at it silently for a moment and smiles. “Your words will determine your place in his heart.”

“I’m like one hundred percent sure it’s after sleeping and ice cream,” Caspar mutters under his breath, only changing his tune when he catches Dorothea staring at him, unimpressed. “Okay! I promise I’ll say the right things.”

“And that you’ll do it today.”

“ _Today?!_ I’m not ready!”

“You were ready last time,” Dorothea sighs, her lips curling into a sympathetic smile, but Caspar’s not sure if it’s for him or Linhardt. “Take him somewhere spontaneous—maybe somewhere empty, where you won’t have to worry so much about anyone but Lin.”

“I dunno, Dorothea,” Caspar says flatly, tugging Linhardt’s ring from his finger and dropping it into his pocket.

“You’ll have something to look forward to after this crazy war is all over.” Dorothea steps forward, placing her hands on both of his shoulders as she reasons, “why wait any longer, you know?” 

“Because when I tried, I _failed_ **_miserably_** _._ ” 

“Hold on, now—that’s not the Caspar I know.” Dorothea’s lips purse as she drops her hands onto her hips. “The brawler in him wouldn’t let himself go down without a fight.”

“I...”

A shove almost pushes Caspar off-balance and he grabs the edge of the vanity behind him just in time for his brows to knit together as he whines out a _very_ not-manly _‘hey!’_

“Come on, Caspar. No one can beat you in a scrap, right?”

Pushing himself upright, he keeps an eye on Dorothea, wary. “Right—”

“ _And_ you were the undefeated champ of the brawling tournament this month, yeah?”

“Yeah...” Caspar nods his head, lips curling into a grin recalling his sweet victory; she’s got a point. “Yeah—yeah, I did!”

“You can beat anyone!”

“I can beat _everyone!_ ” Throwing back his head, he laughs wildly, punching a fist into his hand.

Dorothea looks satisfied.

“So, all this uncertainty—you can beat that, too,” she says with a smile, shoving her hands onto her hips. “You’ll be glad when it’s over and done with and Linhardt von Hevring is halfway to being a Bergliez.”

Caspar pauses, lips pressing together. “His dad won’t like that.” 

“Okay, that’s it.” With a surprising show of strength, Dorothea turns him around, and he barely has the time to regain his footing before he’s pushed out of the door. He tosses a look back at her, raising his hands in surrender.

“I was just kidding!”

“ _Go,_ Caspar,” she says firmly, pointing a manicured finger at him. “And when I see you tomorrow, you _better_ be engaged.” 

“But we haven’t talked about your crush on _Edie_ yet!”

Dorothea’s door closes in his face.

* * *

Finding Linhardt is surprisingly hard.

He’s usually in the library on quiet days like this, but when Caspar rushes through the double doors, he doesn’t see him reading or perusing the top shelves like usual. In fact, he finds out that he hasn’t been in all morning—which is weird because, even though it doesn’t seem like he would be, Linhardt is actually a morning person. But he doesn’t think much of it; people’s schedules change all the time and he doubts even Linhardt would be satisfied reading books all day.

Only, he’s not at the fishing grounds, or the lake, or in any of the meeting rooms. And he wasn’t on greenhouse duty, judging people’s choices at the marketplace, or ransacking any of the old chapel buildings for shiny old things, either. 

Caspar gives up at the stroke of the monastery’s last bell.

It’s not until evening that he steps into his room, tired from running around the whole of Garreg Mach and stripped of the heavy armor that slowed him down more than it helped. Closing the door with a yawn, he takes all of one step forward before pausing, lifting his head as his eyes set on dark emerald strands and blindingly pale skin.

Linhardt doesn’t look up at him, huffing and puffing quietly to himself.

He’s rummaging through the bedside table, long button-down running past his hips and hair damp from the baths. Caspar’s first thought is that their bedroom should’ve been the _first_ place he checked; Linhardt is always taking a nap throughout the day, he probably would’ve struck lucky without having to run around the monastery at all, not that he can do anything about it now. 

His second thought, as Linhardt notices him standing there, is that he looks more than pretty with his hair down rather than pulled away from his face. And the closer he steps toward Caspar, the more Caspar notices all of the pretty things about him he couldn’t see when he was across the room—the radiance of the smile he gives him in the glow of evening candlelight, the elegance of his long neck, the soft curve of his collarbones disappearing into his shirt. 

Caspar doesn’t have a third thought after that, probably because Linhardt’s standing right in front of him now and he’s never been good at manifesting coherent thoughts when admiring someone so beautiful. A cool hand finds his cheek, and he’s pulled into a long, deep, perfectly distracting kiss. And even his first and second thoughts have disappeared into the void.

It ends too suddenly, but even the briefest touch of Linhardt’s lips to his is enough to leave him dazed. 

With a moony-eyed look, he grins. “Hey.”

“Good evening,” Linhardt greets with a subtle simper, fingertips ghosting downward along Caspar’s jaw. 

“Where were you today?”

“I was sent on errands. I returned a little while ago.”

“Oh,” Caspar says dumbly. 

He hadn’t taken errands into account. Just thinking about it makes him feel even more stupid; he could’ve _asked_ Byleth where Linhardt was assigned for the day and saved himself the time. Caspar doesn’t dwell on it, though, not when the air suddenly feels different, warm beneath his fingertips—though that might just be the body against his. 

His fingers twitch against the soft fabric of Linhardt’s blouse, noticing just how different it is from what he usually lounges around in at night.

“Getting dressed for bed already?” 

Linhardt gives him a meaningful look, tracing down the column of Caspar’s throat. “I was thinking about getting undressed, actually... I don’t want to sleep just yet.” 

The subtle rasp in his voice makes Caspar shiver, every teasing touch clouding his thoughts further. He swallows thickly, trying to keep the conversation casual. “O-Oh, uh, what did you wanna do?” 

Arms drape around his shoulders, Linhardt’s oversized shirt rising from between Caspar’s hands and his hips—and he is not wearing anything underneath, nope, _not a thing_ —the feel of soft skin beneath his hands effectively halting all brain function. Soft lips press against his with a hum and Caspar finds himself chasing after them when Linhardt pulls away just enough to speak.

“I think you’re _very_ aware that I want you to take me to bed right now.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“Is that a problem?”

“Nope, no, not at all, but, uh, do you think we could talk first?” Caspar laughs a little at his own request, feeling the vibration of it against Linhardt’s lips. His own hands betray him, fingers pressing into the delicate skin of pale outer thighs as Linhardt presses closer, a look of contemplation on his face.

“Hmm—no.” False contemplation, Caspar realizes as lips find his own and slender fingers run down the back of his neck, dipping beneath the tight fabric of his under-armor. “Besides,” Linhardt whispers against his lips, “I almost guarantee that whatever you want to talk about will go right over my head right now.”

Linhardt’s amused smile is a wonder to behold, Caspar thinks, always a mixture of self-satisfaction and silent laughter that gives him tingles from his fingertips to his toes. Usually tight-lined lips curve like a cupid’s bow, and he’s so distracted by them that he doesn’t notice the way he follows every step Linhardt takes back, beckoned to the bed by long, drawn-out kisses and fingers tucked beneath his belt.

Piece by piece, his resolve is crumbling as he tries to talk into a soft, sweet mouth. “Just for a minute?”

Linhardt kisses him with a unique brand of passion only he has, in that enthusiastic way Caspar loves, all hands in his hair and chest pressed flush against his. 

“Later, I promise.”

Before he can even form the words to complain, eyes flicker up to meet his, soft hands gently rubbing the back of his neck. 

“You’ll make love to me now, won’t you?”

How can Caspar refuse?

It’s something rare for Linhardt to initiate things all on his own, and only for him—he wouldn’t lift so much as a finger if Caspar were anyone else. Which is why it feels like a reward when Linhardt falls back onto the mattress and drags him down along with him, legs winding their way around Caspar’s hips as he’s drawn close.

And then he lets Caspar do as he pleases.

Caspar loves how Linhardt just doesn’t care—how he lets him move him around however he wants without a complaint, how he’d rather roll with the punches of Caspar’s simple carnal desires than bothering with the hassle of voicing specific demands. 

Linhardt doesn’t _want_ because he knows he’s going to _get_ and Caspar’s more than willing to give it to him; he doesn’t mind the work. 

And the work, he does.

As eager as Linhardt seems, he’s doing just the minimum, watching Caspar more than anything. Nimble fingers only make the slightest effort in unfastening the straps of his under-armor, taking their time as Caspar all but rips off the button-down hiding Linhardt’s lithe frame. The content sigh that spills from that pretty mouth is music to Caspar’s ears. The way it eases into hums and quiet gasps as he kisses along that pale throat sends pleasant tingles down his spine, teeth and tongue and unabashed desire blooming the darkest bites across Linhardt’s skin.

He grabs Linhardt and pulls him up so he can lie more comfortably in a mass of their pillows, that thin body weightless in his hands. Caspar loves how pliant Linhardt is when they’re in bed together. How he gets to choose how to pleasure him, how it doesn’t matter to Linhardt this way or that as long as it _feels_ good.

And making him feel good makes Caspar feel good all the same.

Linhardt’s hands slip into the folds of his unfastened top, and he helps push the weighty fabric from his shoulders, shivering when one of Linhardt’s fingers drag from his sternum to his navel. Fingers play at his waist and Caspar can’t help but look at how bare they are with a frown, how they could’ve been doing this _after_ he proposed while looking at it with a whole new meaning. 

Remembering his speech, he drops his hands on either side of Linhardt’s head, fixing him with a serious look.

“Linhardt, I really— _really—_ like you.”

“Yes, I really _really_ like you, too,” Linhardt says quickly, impatiently. “Can you do us both a favor and _show_ me how much you like me?”

“But...” 

Hands drop from Caspar’s body, an exasperated sigh puffing out from between Linhardt’s pink lips. “You know, when I decided to expend energy for sex, I expected getting you on board would be easier than this.”

Caspar wants to say something. He wants to tell Linhardt that it’s as easy to get him into bed as he expects it is— _easier_ even! But right now, Caspar wants so much to make love to a fiancé instead of just a boyfriend. He wants to get on one knee and say his whole practiced speech and spill all the stupid, sappy things he gushes about Linhardt on a daily basis.

It’s impossibly hard to do with the way Linhardt looks right now, though. He’s completely bare atop their sheets, pale skin flushed pink and lips kiss-swollen, slender fingers curled into the spilt-ink locks of his hair. Every move he makes, though minute, is graceful—every angle effortlessly beautiful. Linhardt’s eyes are mesmerizingly wet; glistening beneath his heavy lids, shimmering between long lashes. 

He looks so damn good, Caspar can barely think.

And Linhardt doesn’t help him regain the ability to, not when he reaches up and caresses his face like that, sliding his fingers down the length of Caspar’s jaw before slipping a thumb into his mouth. Caspar forgets everything down to the ring in his pockets when Linhardt meets him halfway for a deep kiss.

It doesn’t matter now anyway.

Caspar knows he’s lost that chance once Linhardt starts palming him lazily through his pants.

Without any more debate, his hands are on Linhardt’s body, fingers dragging down the length of his soft stomach and over to the wandering hands on his belt buckle as he kisses him breathless. Linhardt hasn’t moved a muscle, already slowing the drag of his fingers over a half-assed unfastening job, and Caspar does the honor of removing his clingy trousers himself, kicking belts and buckles onto the floor until he’s in nothing but his smallclothes. Linhardt wraps around Caspar’s body like a vice before he even touches them, drowning his mouth in sloppy kisses. The tips of those long fingers are like fire along the dip of his spine, a ghosting pleasure that becomes a deep, overbearing pressure when Caspar rocks their hips together. 

It’s a little desperate—a little quick—because Caspar can’t help rushing when he’s worked up. Linhardt doesn’t seem to mind it, doesn’t seem to want anything but frantic movements and friction bringing him to that sublime place in his head. 

It’s always up to Caspar to keep the momentum going, which he succeeds at effortlessly.

He hikes them both higher up into the pillows with his hips, grinning when Linhardt breathes a high-pitched moan into his ear, and reaches between their mattress. His fingers find just what he’s looking for, a vial of oil, small and nearly empty. Caspar takes pause, a disappointed groan slipping out of his mouth.

“Use it,” Linhardt urges.

“There’s barely any in here.”

“Don’t care.”

Caspar isn’t in the business of quitting halfway either, popping open the top and letting it get lost in the sheets as he coats his fingers in what little oil is left. The scent is strong and floral, and his nose wrinkles at the stench of it as he walks his fingers between Linhardt’s legs, teasing his entrance with the tip of his index before slipping inside. 

That delicate, soft body is completely relaxed in Caspar’s presence, content with the stroke of his finger. Pressing deeper. Tempering even more as he adds another; it’s something, to have someone’s complete trust this way. His breaths pick up with Linhardt’s own and he moves his wrist in sync with them, in and out. 

Caspar wraps his other hand around Linhardt’s neglected cock, thinking momentarily that it was a shame he didn’t put it in his mouth earlier. 

Now seems like a fruitless endeavor. Linhardt would come too quickly and this escapade would wind down to a painful halt, which Caspar would rather not endure when those gorgeous eyes are watching so intently. 

It just wouldn’t be the same if he were halfway to falling asleep. 

Instead, he focuses on the up and down motion of his hand, swiping his thumb across the sensitive head of Linhardt’s cock, wet dribbles from their mindless grinding making it easier for him to jerk his palm languidly along. Caspar shifts over to straddle one of Linhardt’s pale thighs, rubbing himself frantically against it, deprived and over-excited.

Linhardt looks so comfortable, surrounded by pillows, mouth red and hanging open as he watches Caspar work. And heart-stopping, illuminated in a golden glow, every long drag and curl of Caspar’s finger—two, then three—coaxing a sigh from his lips. He sucks in his bottom lip as he fucks Linhardt with his fingers, the strain of his cock in the confines of his smallclothes barely relieved by his constant frotting against Linhardt’s thigh. It’s enough, for now; he’ll sacrifice his obvious need as he curls and strokes with his fingers, searching eagerly for Linhardt’s more satisfying reactions. 

One brush of his fingers is especially fruitful, Linhardt’s hand shooting out to grab Caspar’s forearm as he twitches beneath him, squeezing it so hard that his fingertips blush as red as his pretty, bruised mouth.

“Shit, Lin,” Caspar says lowly, stroking along Linhardt’s hip. “You look so good this way.”

“You’re not _so_ —bad yourself,” he breathes, digging crescents into Caspar’s forearm as he arches with a particularly deep thrust. “I’m getting impatient, Caspar.” Linhardt swallows, licking his kiss-bitten lips. “Can you just get _in_ me already?”

“Working on it,” Caspar laughs, though he pulls his fingers away without any further delay and shoves his smallclothes off his hips. “You’re so bossy.”

Linhardt looks at him funny and Caspar knows it’s because they both know that ‘bossy’ is something he isn’t. But he doesn’t play along too much, only lets himself enjoy a soft moment when they’re just gazing at each other with smiles that grow by the second until Linhardt looks like he’s about to say something and Caspar shuts him up by grabbing the back of his soft thighs, pushing them up against his hips. 

His lack of patience shows as he slides a hand between them to align himself, pressing inside with less care than usual, though Linhardt hardly seems to mind. Caspar bottoms out with a low groan, one of his hands trapped in the bend of Linhardt’s knee as the other crawls into long, soft hair. 

Fingers frame his face, warm thighs pillowing his body as breaths sigh against his lips. His hips twitch, and Caspar’s almost sorry when he draws them back only to snap them forward again—burying himself deep. 

“I don’t think I can wait,” he huffs, aching, rolling his hips forward and drawing a grunt from Linhardt’s lips.

“It’s not like it’s been a while.”

“Good, because I don’t think I could slow down if I tried.”

“Please”—Linhardt shudders, hands falling to Caspar’s hips—“don’t hold back on my account.”

It’s all the go-ahead Caspar needs to begin thrusting forward, pressing Linhardt down into the mattress as he tries for an angle, as he grabs for every inch of skin he can touch despite knowing this very body inside and out. He’s brimming with enthusiasm, knowing no moderation, only that every slap of their hips meeting urges him to do more. 

There are hands digging into Caspar’s back, fingers in his hair as Linhardt holds onto him, palms wandering between his shoulder blades and down his spine as his dick slides in and out of that soft body quicker— _faster, more_. He pounds into Linhardt with all of his might, gasping moans puffing hot breath into his ear in perfect time with the snap of his hips.

Every gasp, every low groan and hum sends his body abuzz, and he’s not satisfied until the sounds coming out start climbing in octave, higher and higher and so incomprehensible that Caspar wouldn’t even be able to recognize his name if Linhardt said it.

And even when it’s over, it doesn’t feel like enough—not enough of Linhardt’s voice, of his body, of his kisses. He’s Caspar’s insatiable habit, and just the sight of him panting in the sudden quiet beneath him, sticky and covered in sweat, is enough to make him forget everything else in the world around him. 

Caspar smothers him in kisses until they fall fast asleep.

* * *

He finds himself in high spirits the next morning. 

Caspar leaves his quarters with a pep in his step, humming to himself, body pleasantly warm as he steps through the dormitory halls—it’s a great day already and it’s barely even started! There are a number of things Byleth’s shoved into his schedule, but with the energy he woke up with, he’s sure to get it all done in half the time. Maybe less.

Just the thought of having enough free time later on to go bother Linhardt has him grinning all the way down to the bottom floor.

Of course, that’s if he’s awake by then. 

Linhardt’s still snoozing away in their room (the lucky guy), and probably will be for a while, but no matter when he goes to sleep, he’s always up before the second bell—reading, researching, lounging by the lake. Caspar thinks it might be nice to join him later. Maybe they can eat together.

All those pleasant thoughts carry him right past the greenhouse, through the fishing grounds, and toward the dining hall where he’s supposed to meet Raphael for breakfast before their morning training session. 

“Caspar!” 

The sound of his name stops him just before the stairway to the dining hall, and he turns around to see Dorothea rushing his way, hands hiking up her dress as she speeds toward him. 

“Hey, Dorothea,” he says with a grin, dropping his hands onto his hips as she catches her breath; she returns the favor tenfold.

“ _Someone_ looks happy today.” Her voice is light and airy, and Caspar can’t help but smile even wider because, yes, he’s _definitely_ happy today. Just being reminded of his mood makes him tingle—like the first time he ever experienced a ‘morning after’ with Linhardt. It’s complete invincibility, the powerful feeling of letting out a battlecry from deep within or something like that. Dorothea raises a brow at his silence. “Very happy.”

“ _Totally._ ”

“You did it, huh?” Dorothea invades his personal space, her hands wrapping around his forearm and shaking him back and forth with every excitable move she makes. “Why am I asking? You so did!”

Caspar would be surprised that she caught on to his afterglow in the first place if he wasn’t so busy being embarrassed that she was able to point it out right away. He rubs the back of his hand over his nose, sniffing as he plays it off cooly. “I might’ve.”

She makes an almost inhuman noise, bouncing on her heels, hair flying every which way and shoes clicking loudly every time they hit the stone ground. “What did he say? Spare no details!”

Taking pause, Caspar’s face twists in confusion at her request, thinking he must’ve missed something. “Wait—what do you mean?” 

Dorothea looks lost for a moment, mouth opening and closing several times before her green eyes blink up at him.

“What did he say...?” She asks slowly, her voice halfway between laughter and bewilderment. “You know, when you asked him to marry you?” 

Caspar’s eyes blow wide, the gasp he sucks in nearly making him choke as he smacks his forehead with so much force, the knights on watch can hear it _._

Throwing his head back, he yells into the sky.

  
  


*******

  
  


**Step 3: Plan a date you’ll both enjoy.**

_“Maybe you can take him on a date and ask him then,”_ Dorothea had said, lips pressing together and pulling apart in an attempt to keep herself from laughing at his misery. _“Just try not to get distracted this time.”_

Of course, that’s easier said than done when it comes to Linhardt. 

After parting ways with her, Caspar spent the whole afternoon distracted, wracking his brain for date ideas all the while trying to listen to whatever it was Linhardt was talking about during their time spent together in the dining hall. 

He didn’t get a chance to enjoy any of it, isn’t even allowed one good memory from his day to take with him to stable duty.

Caspar sulks a bit, brushing down Dorte’s mane. 

As much as he thinks horses are cool, they’ve never really taken a liking to him. Ferdinand once said it’s because he’s just a _little_ too loud, startling them easy every time he opens his mouth, but he just thinks he isn’t the type of guy to get along with animals bigger than he is. 

Petra’s wyvern hadn’t exactly liked him riding his back, after all. 

On another note, though, he did find out that Abzul is definitely a _he._

All that aside, the fact remains. Every once in a while, Byleth still decides to put Caspar on stable duty despite the trouble he causes—says there are one too many of them in the rubble-clearing department—and teams him up with Ferdinand to make sure the horses are all in check. Probably to keep him in check, too, if he thinks about it. 

So _that’s_ why Ferdinand keeps looking over at him every few minutes.

He could at least be more subtle and start a conversation!

That train of thought gives Caspar an idea. Though he and Ferdinand disagree on plenty of matters, they get along well enough. And Ferdinand’s better versed than he is when it comes to romantic things—courting and traditions and all of the intricacies of love that sometimes gives Caspar a headache. He’s gone and romanced _Hubert_ for goddess’ sake, that’s got to have upped his credibility like crazy. 

It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?

“Hey, Ferdinand, do you think you can give me some advice?” 

“Advice?” Ferdinand’s eyes brighten and he shoots Caspar a princely smile, clutching the grooming comb in his hands to his chest as if he’s just been presented with a pedigree pony. “Why, of course! It is my duty to counsel my comrades in these trying times—whatever your woes, I, Ferdinand von Aegir am here to listen!”

“Great...!” Caspar forces a laugh. “I don’t have any _woes,_ or whatever, but I could use an idea or two for a date.”

“An idea for a date?” He just _said_ that. “Well, you have come to the right person. I”— Ferdinand gestures to himself in a flourish—“am an expert in romance. I am engaged myself, you know.”

“I know—” 

“Wonderful!” Ferdinand runs his comb through his horse’s mane once, a faraway look in his eyes as he gazes off into the distance. “It was a nice little surprise because we’d both decided to ask at the same time, though I had to do so once again in front of our friends, properly. I plan for a grand ceremony when the war is over—”

“ _Ferdinand—_ getting a little off track here,” Caspar urges. “Ideas—date? Remember?”

“Oh, yes, forgive me. I get rather caught up—” Ferdinand pauses, clearing his throat, and Caspar has half a mind to thank Anna for showing him that scary glare of hers. “Right. An idea for a date,” he says for a second time, a fond smile on his face. Caspar nearly believes he’s going to get a dramatic retelling of his first date with Hubert, or maybe be expected to take notes or do something that’s romantically impossible for him—like host a tea party or write a love letter—but then Ferdinand says: “I think that the best dates, especially with someone you have been with as long as Linhardt, are ones that bring back fond memories.”

And Caspar finds himself agreeing instead.

“Yeah... we have shared a lot of good times.”

“Excellent!” Looking pleased with himself, Ferdinand bends down to drop his comb into a bucket, picking up a brush and sweeping it over his horse’s back with a satisfied sigh. “Since we are at war, we cannot go far, but perhaps you can narrow those good times down to a few you remember enjoying at the monastery.”

“Huh.” Caspar considers his words with a nod. “That doesn’t sound too bad, actually. There are lots of places here that we like to hang out at—I’ll just take him to a few of the best.”

“Ah, like a romantic adventure!” Ferdinand nods. “However, it might be in your best interest to also choose a place you have not been before, so you can end on a new and exciting note.”

Taking those words to heart, Caspar doesn’t think it would hurt to whisk Linhardt away to all of their old hiding places for old times’ sake. The corner cove at Abyss or even old Garreg Mach Lake—as the years go by, something about them is always bound to change, right? And if he thinks about it, despite the popularity of the Goddess Tower, he and Linhardt have never actually been inside. 

Maybe he can propose there. 

“You know,” he begins with a smile, feeling a little more confident in his plans, “you’re pretty good at giving advice, Ferdinand.”

“Well, I have a natural talent for advising, of course.” Ferdinand beams. “As it will be my job to advise the future ruler of Fodlan, I have found that lending an ear to my dearest comrades only further sharpens my intuition, making me the best at assessing any and all situations—”

“Aww, man,” Caspar interrupts, sucking his teeth as he strokes through Dorte’s long mane one last time. “Guess I’m all done!” 

“Very well! Shall we continue this conversation over tea—?”

“I promised the professor I’d lend him a hand over at, uh... where he is right now.” Which is a big, fat lie. “Maybe next time!” 

“Well, surely you have a few moments to—”

Tossing his brush into a nearby bucket, Caspar makes a beeline straight out of the stables, waving hastily over his shoulder. “Thanks for the idea, Ferdinand—see you later!”

“Caspar, we still have so much to talk about!”

* * *

He and Linhardt have very different ideas of enjoyment, Caspar thinks, but they also know exactly what works for them. And when it comes to himself, he genuinely enjoys doing whatever Linhardt likes to do, so long as he gets to spend time with him. 

It’s why he’s gone and created a short mental list of places Linhardt enjoys; places where they’ve experienced some kind of adventure. He spends his free time after chores preparing a small basket of food—stuff from the dining hall that’s easy to find and is in abundance—storing it on the bottom shelf behind the longtable for later. And makes his rounds to each night shift general, making sure that no one will be interrupting them for the rest of the evening. 

When he’s finally deemed himself ready, Caspar searches the monastery for his future husband.

He finds Linhardt out by the Entrance Hall.

“Hey, there you are!”

“Here I am,” Linhardt says with that smile Caspar swears is reserved just for him. “Did you need something?”

“You see, I...” He notices Linhardt shifting his stack of books from one side to another and decidedly reaches over, scooping all four of them into the crook of his arm to relieve him of the weight. Caspar’s rewarded with a soft, pleasant sigh and Linhardt curling an arm around his. “I was sorta thinking that we haven’t spent time together in a while.”

“We see each other every night, Caspar.”

“Well— _yeah—_ but I was thinking something a _little_ different,” he says with a shrug, his smile best-kept-secret giddy. “Like a date!”

“A date?” Linhardt seems interested then, a quiet excitement playing across his face. If Caspar’s honest, he’d say that Linhardt might actually _want_ to go on a date, and he wonders if that’s something he’s just never paid attention to before; a quiet desire that was never brought to light. Despite how much he loafs around, Linhardt does like going out here and there—at least, he does with Caspar.

And... they’ve never been on a real date before. 

Getting together during wartime never really gave them the chance.

“And just where do you suggest we go?”

“Not far, I promise. You’ll like it, for sure!” Caspar says excitedly, his voice rising in volume with nearly every word, and he tilts his head up to see a shockingly amused look on Linhardt’s face. He laughs awkwardly under his breath at his own zeal, clearing his throat and turning himself down a little. “We can go to all the places at the monastery you like—maybe even somewhere we haven’t been before?”

“If I say yes, will you stop looking as if you’re about to explode?” 

Caspar grins. “Maybe.”

“Then, yes.” Linhardt says with a smile, thumb idly rubbing along Caspar’s forearm. He becomes overly aware of Linhardt’s hand then—his empty ring finger—and realizes that the _one thing_ required for his proposal is still on their bedroom floor, resting in the pocket of his discarded trousers. 

None the wiser, Linhardt reaches for his books. “I just have to take those to the library and then we can be off.”

“I’ll take them!” Caspar shouts almost immediately, pulling the books closer to his chest as he pulls away from Linhardt. “You just stay right here!”

Nearly tripping over himself, Caspar races past the Entrance Hall and through the fishing grounds. The world whizzes past him in a blur as he heads for the dormitories, and he’s paying so little attention that he accidentally knocks into Mercedes on the way up.

“My bad!”

“Oh! Is everything alright, Caspar?”

“Can’t talk, gotta go!” Caspar calls over his shoulder, running for the dormitory stairs. “Sorry, Mercedes!”

It takes seconds to reach his and Linhardt’s room, dropping the books onto their bed and picking up his trousers from the floor. He shoves his hands into one of the pockets and grabs the ring, giving it a once-over before piling Linhardt’s books back into his arms again and rushing right back out from where he came. 

Caspar sprints through the empty hall, whooping all the way down the stairs, and only has a half a second to reel it all in and come to a clumsy halt before he barrels right into Mercedes.

Again.

He ends up bumping into her anyway, and though the force of their collision isn’t great, he still gets all of the books knocked out of his hands. 

“Jeez, I’m sorry, Mercedes!” Grabbing her shoulders, he makes quick work of assuring himself that he didn’t do her any harm before dropping down to pick up his mess, throwing one book on top of the other in a rush.

“It’s okay,” she says, looking a little baffled by his sudden scrambling. Helping him pick up the last of his books, Mercedes looks up at him with concern. “Caspar, is everything alright?”

“I can’t really talk right now, Mercedes—sorry!” Caspar reaches for the book in her hands before pausing, looking down at the stack in his own. “Actually, do you think you can take these to the library for me?”

“Oh! Certainly, but—”

“Awh, man, you’re a lifesaver!” Grinning wide, he sets the rest of the books into Mercedes’ arms. “I owe you one!”

With the intent of apologizing later, he gives her a friendly pat on the shoulder before zooming past her, making his way back to Linhardt in a rush of clanking metal plates and heavy footfalls. He’s still waiting right where he left him, staring intently at Byleth, who’s having an everyday conversation with a lively Gatekeeper. 

“That was fast,” Linhardt remarks.

“I know you like to sleep early rather than late, so we should start while the sun is still up!” Caspar takes a moment to catch his breath, waving a hand dismissively, and though he means it whole-heartedly, he also wants to pack as many things into their date as possible.

“Ah.” Linhardt looks terribly pleased, the corners of those soft, pink lips curling upward as he steps forward, and Caspar relishes in the feeling of them kissing his temple. “Handsome _and_ thoughtful.”

“Well—ah, ya know,” he sputters, shrugging. A cool hand presses affectionately to his cheek and Caspar clears his throat, ignoring the way his ears burn and offering an arm that Linhardt is quick to take. There’s a content look on his face as Caspar pulls him through the Entrance Hall.

“What did you plan first?”

“Remember our first hiding place here?” 

“You mean when we found Abyss before our professor did.” Linhardt keeps his eyes to the ground, probably counting his steps out of habit. “There were quite a lot of artifacts in that hovel down there. I didn’t get to study them all before the war began.” 

There’s something wonderful in the way Linhardt’s face changes, eyes brightening in the face of opportunity, smiling with teeth like he does when something enthralls him. Caspar used to worry that it would take something big, something spectacular (or mentally stimulating, or otherworldly... or other things he’s inherently incapable of)—to make Linhardt truly happy. But he realizes, now more than ever, that he just wants something thoughtful. Something easy and laidback, something fun and carefree, something simple.

And that’s something Caspar _can_ give him.

“Why don’t we do that now? Just like we used to!” 

“It’s been a while since we’ve been on an adventure anyhow.” 

Caspar grins. “I do miss getting into trouble with you.”

“Perhaps we should go on dates more often then,” Linhardt suggests casually, though his smile becomes a little softer; he walks just a little bit closer, too.

And Caspar finally feels like he’s doing something right.

* * *

Inevitably, they end up at the fishing docks.

A good thirty minutes into rummaging around in Abyss, Yuri had gotten a sniff of their looting and had come personally to chase them right back to the surface. Of course, Linhardt had snagged a few interesting looking artifacts first, shoving them into his coat before talking the trickster out of skinning them alive for 'picking up their unwanted junk.’ And Caspar apologized upwards of thirty times for what happened at the pond only to find out that Yuri had _“more important things to worry about than getting a little wet.”_

So, he guesses they made peace. 

That peace didn’t last long, though; one _teensy_ comment about Yuri soaking wet and without makeup on had them running for their lives not a minute later.

Who knew the guy would be so upset?

For what it’s worth, it _was_ fun. And Linhardt had laughed the second they were out of harm's way, loud and carefree and waving his arms as he reenacted Caspar’s _almost_ fatal mistake. 

It was nice; a moment Caspar wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

Their next few stops had been a little less chaotic, but just as exciting; breaking into the vault in the Holy Tomb, bartering away some of their discoveries to the first shady merchant they laid eyes on at the marketplace, using the money to buy some expensive wine that they drank with their picnic meal at the lake outside of Garreg Mach. 

It was just like old times, but with less consequence, which somehow made it all even more exciting. 

Caspar likes the kind of fun that doesn’t cost a thing.

“Cast out the line again.”

Linhardt is lying down on his back behind him, hands propping his head up and eyes closed as he gives quiet commands. Caspar reels in his line and does what he says, watching his hook and bait fall beneath the glassy surface of the water.

They haven’t caught a single fish since they got here, but Caspar thinks he could do this all night.

The afternoon’s fallen into evening faster than he’s expected, however, and Caspar knows they’ll have to make their way up to the Goddess Tower soon. It’s where he’s decided to propose to Linhardt, after all. Romantic and secluded, it’s got the best view of the lake and the stars—two things Caspar knows Linhardt loves. And he’s confident that it’ll prove just the right moment to get down on one knee. 

Then, Linhardt can tell him about every constellation until they fall asleep under the night sky.

And it’ll be perfect.

Or, at least, it would have been. 

Caspar can’t help how content he feels in this moment, lounging beside the love of his life and enjoying their favorite childhood pastime, knowing they can be like this forever—but, really, he just wants to be _engaged._

Things didn’t work out the night before, but it just hadn’t been the right time. It was definitely a _good_ time, that much he knows, but all that aside, he’s been holding onto the high of actually getting to propose for too long and he’s bursting at the seams. 

Looking around, he notices that everything is so quiet, so peaceful, that it’s almost a shame to ruin the moment; he doesn’t want to second guess himself, though. Caspar doesn’t want to wait until they go to the Goddess Tower, not anymore.

He wants to make Linhardt his _right now_.

Reaching into his pocket, he encloses a hand around the engagement ring, setting his fishing rod down as he brings it into the sunset’s meager light. It shines despite the low gleam of the orange rays, and Caspar can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips; how one small thing is able to contain everything he feels inside really is amazing. Now he sees why people go to the trouble of finding the perfect ring.

Lips splitting into a wide grin, Caspar twists around.

“Hey, Linhardt?” 

A hand smacks into his suddenly, and the ring flies out into the pond.

Loud yawning and the creak of Linhardt’s body accompanies Caspar’s wide-eyed silence, hands closed into fists as his arms stretch out across the dock.

“Yes?” Linhardt replies casually, sitting up beside him. “What’s the matter?” The tips of cool fingers grasp his chin, and Caspar doesn’t realize his mouth is wide open until Linhardt closes it for him. “You’re gaping like a fish.”

“It’s just,” Caspar gasps, shaking his head incredulously. “Heh—it’s just, wow, the uhm? A fish stole my bait and it...”—he puffs out a breath of hot air—“just blew my mind for a second there, I guess.” 

Caspar stares into the rippling waters longingly.

“Oh, well that’s disappointing.”

“Ahuh...” 

“I’m sure you’ll have better luck next time,” Linhardt says. “Of course, that’s only if you start paying more attention.”

“Yeah.” Caspar creases up, forcing out a mirthful sigh. 

It’s quiet for a long moment before a hand brushes his cheek, Linhardt’s voice softening as he thumbs beneath his eye. “Hey, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Oh! Yeah, don’t worry about it, really. I was just unlucky, I guess.” Caspar shrugs lightly, trying to formulate a plan in his head now that everything’s _really_ gone wrong, and fast, because he doesn’t like seeing Linhardt stare at him all concerned and worried when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Grabbing his fishing rod, he reels the line back up, thankful when it comes back empty, and pushes himself up to stand. “Wanna do something else now?”

That seems to do the trick, because whatever worry happened to be wrinkling Linhardt’s face before is gone, replaced with surprise.“You have more in mind?” 

“I was thinking you might wanna go stargazing!”

“Stargazing?”

“There’s a nice spot I found at the Goddess Tower,” Caspar suggests, thinking that if he was really going to go out like this, he might as well finish what he started. “If you wanna check it out.”

“I do.” Caspar tries not to let the tingles he feels hearing those two words get to him. “I’m actually quite curious about a recent constellation Hapi told me was visible from there.”

“We can look at the stars all night if it’ll make you happy.” 

Linhardt looks stunned for a moment, but Caspar thinks little of it when he smiles warmly seconds after, so breathtaking that the horror of losing a ring in the pond pales in comparison to the way it makes his heart swell. Caspar thinks suddenly that this is enough for him tonight, and when he offers his hand and hoists Linhardt up from the docks, he tells himself he’ll worry about everything else tomorrow. 

Tonight is just about Linhardt.

Slender fingers grasp his chin and Caspar catches a glimpse of laughter in shining blue eyes before he’s chastely kissed—quickly, softly, sweetly.

“What was that for?” He asks.

“Perhaps a prelude to what will ensue in the Goddess Tower tonight,” Linhardt says teasingly and Caspar’s brows shoot up into his hairline.

“Does that mean more kissing?”

Linhardt laughs under his breath. “Perhaps.” 

And Caspar’s worries roll right off of his shoulders as fingers entwine with his.

He doesn’t look back once as they walk away.

It isn’t until he wakes up the next morning tangled up with Linhardt that he remembers what lies at the bottom of the pond, and the bliss of probably the best first date they could’ve possibly had leaves him in one great sigh.

Caspar spends the late afternoon searching until his body aches from swimming and his lips are blue from the cold. 

The ring is nowhere to be found. 

  
  


*******

  
  


**Step 4: Be yourself.**

“I lost the ring.” 

A pretty hand holding the dining hall’s flatware pauses, emerald eyes flickering up at him over a modest pile of gratin, and Caspar does his best not to sigh for the dozenth time today. 

“You... lost it,” Dorothea echoes, brows frowning as her lips do. “How?”

Caspar looks down at his meal, a little upset that he doesn’t have much of an appetite when they’re having steak and gratin—something that’ll _never_ happen again during this war, he’s sure of it. Mixing his sides together with a lazy drag of his fork, Caspar goes over the many mistakes he’s made over the past few days before chancing a glance back up at Dorothea; she watches him expectantly.

So, he gives in—and _sighs._

“I went on a date with Linhardt and planned to propose at the Goddess Tower, but I got too excited when we were at the docks, so I ended up trying to ask it then and just—” Caspar stabs his steak. “He knocked it out of my hand and into the water... I searched all morning and nothin’.” 

When Dorothea doesn’t respond right away, Caspar drops his fork and buries his face in his hands. “This is the worst.”

“It’s not the _worst_ that can happen,” Dorothea offers. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about what she’s implying. “Don’t get discouraged, okay?”

He looks up to find her tapping at her chin, an intense look on her face. “I dunno, Dorothea. Maybe it’s just not the right time—I should’ve waited until this whole dumb war was over with before trying to do all this marriage stuff.”

“And waste your chance?” Dorothea looks troubled then, but it’s a moment so lightning fast that Caspar’s unsure if it even existed before her gentle smile lights up the room. She places a hand over one of his. “None of us know what’ll happen on the battlefield, you know. Won’t victory be so much sweeter if marrying Linhardt is your reward for coming out alive?” 

Caspar sees her point; it would be nice.

“I don’t know how I’m going to start all over with this proposal thing,” he says.

“Don’t you worry, Caspar.” Dorothea stands from her seat, a mischievous look in her eye. “Just leave it to me.”

“Leave what to you?” She doesn’t answer, only shoots him a wink before tossing her hair back behind her shoulders and walking out of the dining hall’s double doors. “Dorothea—!”

“Leave it to me!”

* * *

Caspar stares at the book he’s reading as if he’s trying to make it explode with his mind. 

‘Course, the book has better chances of blowing his mind, if he’s honest. 

His desk in the library is piled high with books— _Courtship for Commoners_ and the even less helpful _Three Recipe Love Potions_ —stacked one on top of the other as he finishes reading them. And he’s stuck in a corner, far away from everyone around him and making sure all the books he doesn’t have open are face down with titles hidden. Caspar really doesn’t want anyone commenting on his choice of reading material; Lysithea is meandering around the shelves and he would love to avoid her very unwanted opinions. 

He’s already doubting his decision to come here in the first place. 

Caspar’s never been much of a reader, but since he lost Linhardt’s ring, he’s desperate to find an alternative—unsure if the marketplace will be a lucky stop for him twice. 

So what if Dorothea says he needs one—not everyone proposes with a ring, right?

Ferdinand, for one, proposed to Hubert with a giant tin of expensive coffee beans and they’ve been going strong ever since... Of course, Ferdinand _did_ end up properly proposing, in front of a crowd _and_ with a ring, later that week. And Caspar bets if he asked him right now, he’d say that getting down on one knee and presenting an engagement band is the _only_ way to ask for someone’s hand in marriage, too.

This is just _horrible._

His date had gone so well—almost _too well_ —that he’d been in a state of utter bliss until he opened his eyes the next morning and remembered that Linhardt had slapped what could’ve been their future right now straight into the watery depths of the Garreg Mach _fishing pond._

With a heavy sigh, he rubs his hand through his hair, mussing it up before his eyes are once again drawn to the next page of _The Art of Silversmithing._

Maybe he could just _make_ one.

“Caspar?” Snapping his head up at the sound of his name, Caspar comes face to face with the center of his every waking thought—which is a little surprising considering that he hasn’t thought about blowing off steam with a good scrap _once_ this week. Linhardt sets the stack of books in his arms onto Caspar’s desk, brows knitting in confusion as he leans against it. “Are you feeling alright? You’re not acting like yourself.”

“O-Oh, hey, Lin!” Lips twitching into a nervous smile, Caspar kicks himself for choosing to come to the library when Linhardt practically spends all the time he isn’t napping there. “Who, me—? Yeah, I’m totally fine—nothing wrong here!”

“But I’ve never seen you read a book once in your entire life.” 

“Oh, well, you know!” Caspar shrugs, closing the book in front of him with a loud _thump;_ not that it matters if Linhardt sees what he’s reading anyway—silversmithing talk doesn’t really give anything away. “I needed a new hobby—”

Linhardt tilts his head curiously.

“Hm, no—something’s wrong.” His eyes narrow with a scrutinizing gaze. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me? I’ll listen.”

“I’m fine, Lin, don’t worry about it.”

“Alright,” Linhardt says too easily, and though Caspar wouldn’t have told him if he pressed for it, he still feels a little bummed at the dismissal despite the fact that it is indeed _very_ Linhardt.

But then, there are delicate fingers on his chin, tipping his head back. Caspar sees Linhardt’s muted concern for just a second before soft lips descend on his, cool hand wrapping around his neck as a slight weight rests on the arm of his chair. The kiss lasts barely a moment, and Linhardt’s brushing back his hair dotingly as he pulls away.

“I love you,” he says softly, and Caspar’s thoughts are so muddled from the kiss that he can only grin like a giant idiot back. Linhardt smiles mirthfully, lightly patting his cheek before grabbing his books from the desk and heading out. “I’ll see you tonight—try not to give yourself a first-time reader’s headache.”

Caspar lets the insult roll off his shoulder, smile never once leaving his face as he basks in the afterglow of a reminder that Linhardt cares for him deeply in his own special way. And all of his small efforts are like little wonders that never cease to make him warm. 

He looks down at the book in front of him, fighting off the beginning of a first-time reader’s headache and thinking about how much he wants to marry Linhardt.

* * *

Dorothea’s voice is lovely, really.

Walking the flight of stairs from the dining hall to the fishing grounds, Caspar hears it, light and crisp and flowing in the air. He’s almost sure she’s in a great mood, too. Dorothea sings when she’s happy, sad, and everything in between—but this song is full of those pretty high notes she likes, so it’s worth putting his money on her high spirits. And once he’s reached the last step, his suspicions are confirmed with the sight of her beaming smile.

“What’s got you all sing-song-y?” He asks, Dorothea falling into step beside him. 

“Oh, something special.” She bumps their shoulders together playfully, verdant eyes glinting as she pauses in step, Caspar taking her lead. “Here, look,” Dorothea says excitedly, reaching into the clutch bag thing in her hands and pulling out a small, velvet box. “I went to town and did a little sweet talking here and there and got _this._ ”

Caspar’s brows shoot up as she opens it, revealing a delicately designed engagement ring—one that’s completely and totally _Linhardt._

“No way!” He snatches the box with a gasp, turning it in his hands to get a glimpse of shining silver from every angle without bothering to take it out of its place—snug inside the slit of a soft pillow. “This looks amazing,” he says softly, staring up at Dorothea with a grateful smile. “You’re the best!”

“I know,” she sniffs, looking smug.

“It’s perfect.”

“I _know._ ” Dorothea shoves his chest lightly before pointing a stern finger at him. “Just don’t lose it this time.”

“I won’t!” And then, thinking better of himself: “Thanks for all your help, Dorothea.”

“I just want you guys to be happy, so you’re more than welcome! _And,_ you got this.”

“Yeah, I do.” Caspar holds his new ring up to the light of the sun’s rays, putting the last one behind him for good. He’s fueled with the urge to put it on Linhardt’s finger _,_ and like a sign, Caspar spots him beyond its sparkle—standing on the docks, staring out at the water rippling with the wind all by himself. “In fact, I’m gonna ask him right now!”

“Uh, Caspar,” Dorothea follows his gaze, tilting her head to the side after a moment. “I don’t think—”

Caspar waves her off, having already made his decision. “I’ll be careful!”

Turning heel, he jogs over to the docks excitedly, making sure he’s careful not to slam into anyone this time (he still has yet to apologize to Mercedes). Luckily, there aren’t many people around; Ashe is hanging around the greenhouse and Petra is lounging by the stone wall, watching Raphael dive into the pond to swim laps—which is great for training, no matter what literally everyone else says. Caspar doesn’t have the time to care all that much about the debate today, though. 

His proposal is happening.

Caspar wastes no time with preparation, sliding to a stop behind Linhardt once he reaches the docks and dropping down to one knee.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment forever, so just—don’t say a word, okay?” Holding up the velvet box in one hand, he spreads out the other, the smile on his face so big that it slits his eyes. Linhardt is silent, as asked, and it gives him just enough time to get it together.

“Linhardt von Hevring,” Caspar begins, sucking in a deep breath, “will you marry me?”

.

.

.

“Linhardt?”

.

.

.

The quiet is disconcerting.

Though Caspar asked him not to say a word, it was kinda _implied_ that he wanted an answer. He cracks open his smile-shut eyes, blinking up at Linhardt’s back with a puzzled look on his face only to think that his boyfriend is looking a little thinner than usual.

Leaning forward a bit, he realizes Linhardt looks almost _too_ thin. 

.

.

.

Is that just his... _?_

“Wha—” Caspar pushes himself off of the ground, closing in on the deep green of Linhardt’s coat. Grabbing the soft velvet, he pulls it off of a stack of rods piled into a bucket leaning against the side of the fishkeeper’s stand and stares down at it with an annoyed huff. “Are you kidding me?”

It comes out a little more disappointed-sounding than he wants it to, because for once, he’d actually said those four words out loud—the whole question, popped! And once again, he’s made a complete fool of himself. Maybe it wasn’t the greatest idea to rush; maybe the right time just hasn’t come.

Still, looking down at the ring, he wishes he had this moment.

Kicking the wooden planks of the dock and shoving Linhardt’s coats into the crook of his arm, he turns back in the direction in which he came, ignoring one of Raphael’s huge splashes.

“Hey, guys! Check out what I found!”

And then he freezes.

Spinning around on the dock, Caspar’s eyes flash when he sees something shining between Raphael’s fingers, something delicate and round, small and gold. It’s the ring he lost, the one he spent hours and hours looking for, but could never find—and Raphael went and plucked it out of the rocks at the bottom of the pond in less than five minutes!

Caspar lets out an infuriated growl, curling his fists and stomping his foot.

“Are you _kidding_ me?!”

  
  


*******

  
  


**Step 5: Pick a sentimental location as your final destination.**

_Nothing_ is going to plan.

Caspar sighs into his pillow, staring at the soft outlines of the bedroom’s wooden walls in the darkness. The dark spots and splits form faces that smile giddily at his mistakes, laugh at him for being unable to ask one simple question without everything backfiring on him. He went and screwed up his first proposal, lost the ring—made a fool of himself on the docks for what feels like the _millionth_ time—

And now he’s on his fourth— _fifth?_ —chance.

Yeah.

Caspar’s fingers delve in and out of the ring in his hand. It barely fits over his first knuckle, just like the last, but this one is just a little bit bigger than the one before. Dorothea must have gotten the correct size, he notes, bringing it up from beneath the blankets where he’s been fiddling with it ever since he and Linhardt went to bed just hours before. 

Though it isn’t much, the smallest sliver of moonlight is enough to make the ring glitter like the rippling waves of the fishing pond in the sun, the silver band only upstaged by a single shining emerald set perfectly within its bezel. It’s beautiful, but without all the frills—no extra diamonds or crazy intricate designs—a simple kind of perfection. 

It’s perfect for Linhardt, who’s a simple kind of perfection all his own.

It would be even more perfect on Linhardt’s finger if he could just get things to go right _one_ time!

 _No,_ he tells himself—all of those past mistakes were just preparing him for the right moment. If they hadn’t happened, he wouldn’t have this ring, or know all the things he knows now about dates and words and The Right Time to pop probably the most important question he’ll ever ask in his life. He knows better now, all of his impulsiveness and cringe-worthy antics aside.

He’s ready. 

Tomorrow will be the day. 

“It’ll be easy,” Caspar mutters to himself. “I’ll find him in the library or the infirmary, pull him aside—it’ll be _fine._ ” Nodding into his pillow, he turns the ring between his index and thumb. “He’ll act like I’ve interrupted him, but he won’t mean it, and he’ll smile at me and it’ll be nice because he always looks so pretty.” 

He smiles himself, getting a little caught up in the idea of being speechless despite always having so much to say. Linhardt has a way of doing that to him. “Then I’ll look him right in the eye...”

Caspar takes a moment to imagine it; the way Linhardt would turn around at the sound of his name with a disinterested look on his face, how it’d melt away once he notices who it is, and that moment when his lips would twitch into an affectionate smile. 

That’s when Caspar will know the moment’s just right. 

“I’ll look him right in the eye,” he whispers, “and I’ll just say it.” 

Turning in bed, Caspar doesn’t expect Linhardt’s face to be so close, and he has to smush a hand over his mouth to stop himself from letting out any startled Bernadetta-like noises. He shifts back until his back hits their bedroom wall, exhaling a held breath as he looks over Linhardt’s dead-to-the-world form. 

His limbs are all over the place—on and off of the bed, in and out of the covers—like he has absolutely no regard for the fact that he shares a bed with another person. Not that Caspar minds, really, he doesn’t need much space, and he likes that Linhardt sleeps so close to him. Like he’s comfortable; like he’s safe and sound. 

Caspar hopes this never changes.

And the first step to making that real is finally putting a ring on Linhardt’s finger. 

“I’ll just say it,” Caspar tells himself again, feeling more determined than ever.

“I’ll say, ‘Linhardt, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,’” he whispers softly, and the more he stares at Linhardt’s pale face in the darkness, the more he feels himself soften—his lips curling into a gentle smile, confidence growing. “‘I’ve spent every second of my life with you, and I wanna spend every second I have left glad that I wouldn’t have it any other way.’”

Caspar reaches out, taking the hand Linhardt has curled in front of him and stroking his thumb across his soft skin. He swallows thickly, looking up at parted lips puffing quiet breaths and swooping strands fallen across a pretty face. 

“‘Linhardt von Hevring, will you marry me?’”

Of course, there’s no answer, but Caspar’s just glad he’s come this far—Dorothea will _definitely_ praise him for that speech.

“Then I’ll put it on his finger and—” He finds himself shaking with that flawlessly pale hand in his own—as if this moment is as real and Linhardt is awake, staring down at him expectantly, listening as if only the things that he says are important. Caspar stays strong, however, because it’s not real, not yet.

Not wanting to waste another second, he carefully slips the ring onto Linhardt’s finger.

Caspar beams. 

His heart is pounding so hard, so fast, that he can feel it reverberating throughout his entire being—and he knows for sure now that asking Linhardt to marry him with an offering of ‘something practical’ would never have been as magical as this. Nothing could feel as good as seeing something shiny on those pale, thin fingers that represents devotion and longing in ways he can’t express. 

He could get used to this.

“And we’ll get married after the war,” he promises after a moment, bringing Linhardt’s hand to his chest, his thumb brushing methodically over the ring. “You’ll say ‘I do,’ won’t you?”

Caspar doesn’t get an answer, and he almost laughs at himself for expecting one.

“Definitely,” he whispers, nodding. “You totally will.”

Sighing contently, he makes a mental note of his speech, confident that everything will go perfectly tomorrow. He’s not sure what his plan is; probably not a date, but simple and mundane should work for now. All his ideas have run completely dry over the last week. Whatever he decides can wait, at any rate; he’s got the speech and he’s got the ring, no other frills needed. 

He moves to pluck it from Linhardt’s finger when a sleepy yawn fills the quiet space of their room.

Linhardt shifts suddenly in his sleep, tugging his hand away with a force so unexpected that Caspar doesn’t even have the chance to make a last-ditch grab for it before he tucks it between his cheek and pillow, mouth parting and mushing together in his sleep.

And just like that, Caspar loses another ring. 

“Oh no—” 

Fingers dragging over the sides of his face, he tries to hold back the distressed noise sounding in the back of his throat, eyes frantically searching for a glimpse of the ring hidden in the inky strands of Linhardt’s hair.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

Panicking, Caspar sits up only to lie back down when he realizes that there’s no point in moving around more than he has to. He’ll just end up waking Linhardt up and ruining everything—though, everything will definitely still be ruined if he doesn’t _get that ring off his finger._

“Okay,” Caspar swallows. “Okay.”

Slowly—very slowly—he reaches over, pushing the tips of his fingers into Linhardt’s pillow and carefully sliding them beneath his hand. Caspar can feel the ring just under his middle finger; with just a little more wiggling, he’s able to get an awkward hold on it, and he tries to pull it loose with a gentle tug.

“Caspar,” an annoyed voice hums. His whole body goes rigid—slitted, sleepy eyes staring at him for just a second before Linhardt rolls away from him, shoving the hand with the ring on it _under_ his pillow instead. “Go to sleep.”

Linhardt goes silent then, only the sound of his soft breaths filling the room as Caspar stares at his back in disbelief. If he thought it was difficult to get the ring back five minutes ago, it’s absolutely impossible now, not without completely blowing his proposal. 

_It’s fine—fine! I’ll just get up before him tomorrow and sneak it right back off and play it off like I’m waking him up._

Sinking into the mattress, Caspar forces his eyes shut, pretending that’ll actually work and swearing that he’ll fix everything first thing tomorrow.

.

.

.

When he wakes in the morning, Linhardt isn’t there. 

And Caspar has a seven-minute kicking tantrum on their bed.

  
  


*******

  
  


**Step 6: Try not to get hung up on the little things.**

It’s right there.

Right there on Linhardt’s _finger._

Caspar can barely concentrate. When Mercedes came to retrieve him for a meeting, he thought that was it for his big surprise—Linhardt would corner him before they even sat down, ask him what was up with the ring, and all of his plans for a perfect proposal would be over and done with. But that wasn’t the case at all! Instead, he spent a few quiet moments listening to Linhardt talk (about everything _but_ the ring), before they were called to sit down.

Which they did, like normal, like there isn’t anything important to talk about— _like a ring mysteriously appearing on_ **_someone’s_ ** _finger._

That’s something Linhardt would ask about right away; no small detail gets past him, but it’s like... he hasn’t even noticed it. 

And it’s right **_there!_**

A loud scoff makes him flinch, and he looks over at Ferdinand sitting beside Linhardt, eyes blazing and arms crossed as his gloved fingers tap his forearm. 

“I think I make an important point—”

“Our next course of action is not up for debate, Ferdinand.” Hubert sits on Edelgard’s right near the head of the long table, his posture rigid as ever as he frowns at his fiancé. They’ve been going at it for a while, but Caspar hadn’t been paying close attention to the details. All he’s aware of is that shining band on Linhardt’s finger, mocking him every time it twinkles in the light. “Her Majesty has wished it, so you will do as she commands.”

Though he does still wonder how Hubert and Ferdinand are engaged sometimes.

Edelgard sighs, eyes closed and fingertips pressed to her temple. “Let’s just hear him out, Hubert.”

“ _Thank_ you.” 

Linhardt’s cheek is shoved into his right hand, tactfully facing away from where Byleth is discussing strategy with his eyes closed, pretending to be listening when he’s actually asleep. He looks so peaceful, without a care in the world, dreaming while the rest of them prepare for battle. Caspar can’t blame him, it’s not like he needs much help coming up with tactics; Linhardt is an expert at knowing exactly what needs to be known without any prior direction. He can somehow afford the luxury.

Unlike Caspar, who will definitely need Dorothea to fill him in later. But he’s been so distracted by the ring— _that he put on Linhardt while he was_ **_sleeping_** —that paying attention to Byleth falls to the bottom of his list of priorities while staring obsessively at Linhardt’s hand sits right at the top.

A hand that is no longer resting on the table, he notices.

Caspar sits up.

And that means—!

Looking around to make sure no one is paying him any mind, he quietly drags his chair back, lowering himself slowly until he’s on his hands and knees under the table. He spots the ring right away—stark against Linhardt’s hand that’s loosely curled along his knee.

There’s a kick at his side, and he looks up to catch Dorothea staring down at him with wide eyes, her head shaking minutely as if asking him just what he thinks he’s doing. Caspar puts a finger to his lips, urging her to stay silent before he begins to crawl, but another kick to his chest draws out the quietest noise from the back of his throat. He pauses for a split second, only relaxing once he’s sure nobody’s heard him, and when Dorothea’s foot comes in for a third kick, he grabs her ankle. 

Her eyes roll away from him for a moment before making their way back, and she nods at his seat, painted lips pressing into a thin line when Caspar chooses to ignore her. He avoids her kicks, grinning once her legs can no longer reach him and heads straight for Linhardt’s dangling hand. It feels like dodging a thousand arrows as he carefully places his thumb and index around his engagement ring.

“Caspar, _what_ are you doing?”

Caspar startles, snapping his head up and knocking it into the underside of the table, wailing as his hands shoot up into his hair as he falls onto his side. “Ow, ow, ow!”

“What is the meaning of this?” Blinking open his eyes, Caspar looks up to see Ferdinand—and everyone else—bending to look at him beneath the table, a frown twisting his lips. A rush of embarrassment courses through him, and Caspar’s whole body flares up, the burning of his ears bringing him back to the stark reality of getting caught red-handed.

“Uh—” He shrinks under everyone’s gaze, rolling over to sit up as he’s scrutinized from every corner of the room. “You see...” A flicker of movement catches his eye; Caspar looks over to see Linhardt, a little dazed and a lot confused, gazing at him questioningly with a tilt of his head. Caspar scratches his cheek. “Uhm.”

“Are you trying to get out of this meeting?” Ferdinand asks, scoffing as he crosses his arms over his chest, pointedly ignoring Caspar’s _‘wait, no!’_ “Unbelievable.”

“It will be disappointing if that is true, Caspar,” Edelgard chimes in.

“It’s not—”

“As someone who often gives away our position in battle, I highly suggest you stay.” Hubert’s narrowed eyes glare down at him. “Not that you actually have a choice, as these meetings are mandatory.”

“It is unbelievable, is it not, Hubert?” Ferdinand huffs.

“Truly.”

“Oh, just whose _side_ are you guys _on?!_ ”

“That’s enough nonsense, Caspar.” Byleth’s head suddenly peeks beneath the table, a deep frown on his lips as his voice rings out monotonously. “Get back in your seat. This isn’t the time for games.”

“But—”

“Caspar?” Linhardt’s soft voice draws his attention. Caspar looks up to see droopy eyes staring down at him, concern and questions he just can’t answer practically swimming in them. And on top of that, the ring is still around Linhardt’s finger.

Its contemptuous sparkle makes him feel defeated.

“Yeah...” Caspar sighs, heading back to his seat. “Sorry.”

* * *

Caspar’s mind is elsewhere during his training session with Raphael.

It’s almost impossible to dodge his punches, one after another hitting their mark when they’re usually easily avoided. Despite the fact that Caspar is still a lot more agile and scrappy, his lack of focus is slowing down his reactions, leaving him wide open for the swing of Raphael’s meaty fists. It’s like his body’s in slow motion, capable of seeing every punch coming, but side-stepping too late or using the wrong parrying maneuver. It’s amateurish and he knows he’s being a disappointing sparring partner. 

But he can’t help it; his mind is too full. 

All because of his own lack of tact.

Or maybe it’s because of Ignatz. 

Caspar did see him wearing the ring he lost in the pond, after all. 

_Benefiting_ from his misery. 

It’s not even the fact that he’s wearing it, but like—even _Raphael_ can get something right.

Caspar gets knocked off-balance, barely catching himself as he stumbles into a training dummy, its wooden rod arm poking him painfully in the back. Raphael lowers his fists with a sigh, shoving one hand onto his hip and rubbing the other through his hair. “We should stop today.”

“What?” Caspar snaps, unsure if he should be annoyed with Raphael or himself. “That wasn’t even half our regimen!”

“Yeah, but it just seems like your heart’s not in it, ya know?” 

“My heart’s _always_ in it!” But that’s only half the truth. Caspar’s heart is _definitely_ in it—he loves fighting!—though, his head isn’t; that much is apparent. Still, Caspar can’t stand the thought of quitting, so he plants himself firmly on his own two feet, puts his dukes back up. “I can still fight!” 

It takes three swift punches to knock him back down again.

“That was way too easy!” Raphael says with a shake of his head, and Caspar takes the hand offered to him with a frown, letting himself be hoisted back onto his feet. He doesn’t even look at the smile Raphael shoots him, too irked by the results of his training to allow himself that comfort. “Just take a break and go eat somethin’. We can do double tomorrow!”

He doesn’t _want_ to do double tomorrow, but Raphael makes him leave ‘for his own good’—practically picks him up and dumps him outside of the training grounds himself. Caspar’s left internally boiling on the inside and dying to go out and kick some ass, but getting into a scrap would only affect his training later, so he kicks rocks all the way to the marketplace instead.

He stops in front of the blacksmith’s weapon display, wondering if he should take some advice Constance gave him long ago and buy something nice to make himself feel better. Nothing really catches his eye, though, and when it does, he glares more than he admires it. 

It’s just—it’s not _fair_! 

Caspar should be enjoying his engagement with Linhardt by now, not glaring at a silver axe like it’s murdered his entire family! Even now, the damn thing’s mocking him, all bright and shining and—

“Caspar!”

—calling his name.

He pauses for a moment, hearing his name being shouted once again before turning away from the display and to Dorothea, who is not at all an axe, grinning from ear to ear. Her beaming smile makes him feel awful, and he wishes from the bottom of his boots that she talks about something _other_ than his proposal. 

“You did it—I’m so happy for you!” She squeals, effectively dashing his hopes with a dreamy sigh. “You’re engaged~”

“No—! I’m not,” he says, sulking. “Sorry.”

“You’re not?” Dorothea looks confused, and then, disappointed. “But Lin’s wearing the engagement ring.”

“Yeah... I kinda started practicing in the middle of the night and put it on him while he was sleeping,” he admits, reaching up to rub down his cheeks with both hands before hissing through his teeth—just saying it out loud sounds stupid. “But then I couldn’t get it off! And he hasn’t said a word about it being there. It’s almost like he hasn’t noticed.”

“So, you put it on him while he was sleeping...” she says slowly, as if trying to understand the situation herself, “but you never asked him in the first place?”

“I know, I know! I’m an idiot,” he whines, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“You have to be honest with him, Caspar. He has the ring, now you have to tell him how you feel.” Dorothea gives him a sympathetic look. “At least there’s no fear of losing it this time.”

“I don’t even know what to say anymore, everything feels wrong at this point! It’s like I have to think about it all over again.”

“Well, it’s time to think fast—he’s walking this way.”

“Oh, man.” Caspar swings his head around, spotting Linhardt making his way down the stairs. “He’s looking _right_ at me, too.”

“I should go.” Dorothea tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and though she tries not to make her staring obvious, her gaze flickers over his shoulder every few seconds. “Just be sure to tell him everything—there’s no point in wasting any more time.” 

“Wait—”

“You _have_ to talk to him. Alone.”

The idea doesn’t exactly _thrill_ him, but Caspar knows she has a point.

“Yeah, you’re right. We’re never going to get any closer to being engaged if I don’t come clean.” Taking a deep breath, he offers her a small smile. “I’m already halfway there, right?”

“That’s the spirit!” She says cheerfully, bouncing onto her tips toes to look over him one more time before coming down with a grin. “I’ll be waiting for the good news.”

Before he can even squeeze out a little more moral support, Dorothea’s gone. He’s faced with Linhardt then, gliding down the last few steps, looking like he could’ve gotten at least two more naps in before noon. Despite being so far away, Caspar can see the ring clearly, shining under the sun with every move of Linhardt’s arm; the way it sparkles when he reaches up to cover a yawn.

It looks like a seamless part of him, and he doesn’t even know why!

“Congratulations, Linhardt!”

“Thank you,” he says boredly, and Caspar is both paralyzed by the good wishes and surprised when Linhardt doesn’t even ask why he’s being congratulated in the first place.

Wait, _does_ he know why?

Does he... _know?_

What’s going on?

“Oh, Linhardt,” Petra calls as she passes by the Entrance Hall doors. “My excitement is overflowing for you!”

“Thanks,” he says politely back, a small smile playing on his lips.

Goddess, he knows—he _has_ to know—and now he’s coming right for him.

And he probably thinks Caspar is an idiot for proposing to him so improperly and that the least he could’ve done was give him the ring while he was awake like a normal person because who puts an engagement ring on someone who’s _sleeping?!_

“Caspar—”

“Let me explain!” A lack of response puts Caspar on edge, those speculating eyes already looking right through him with every blink. “It’s just... it was late and I was talking to myself and you were there and—I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“Uhm”—Linhardt pauses—“what.”

“And I get it, if you want to say no, that’s fine—you don’t want to say no, do you?” Caspar shoves his face into his hands. “Is it because I almost woke you up?!” 

“Caspar.”

“But you were just _lying_ there!” Spreading his arms out wide, Caspar shouts: “What else was I supposed to do, huh?!”

“Okay, well, the professor is looking for you,” Linhardt says suddenly, immediately pivoting on his heel, throwing a few last words over his shoulder. “Now, I’m going to leave because I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m due for my afternoon nap.” 

“Wait!” Caspar catches Linhardt’s hand, sighing in defeat when an inquisitive stare meets his own. “Just... wait.” 

There’s shouting in the marketplace and he can barely hear over a steady stream of curse words coming from someone in the crowd behind him, but Caspar stays focused, staring down at Linhardt’s hand before he works up the nerve to bring up his proposal. 

“Linhardt—”

“Er, Caspar...”

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, and Caspar barely swings his head around to regard some unfamiliar man looking down at him, mouth set into a deep frown.

“I said, hey!” He exhales through his nose loudly. “I’ve been lookin’ for you.” 

“Yeah, hold on just a sec,” Caspar says flippantly, waving a hand in the guy’s direction before turning back to Linhardt. “Listen, I—”

“Caspar,” Linhardt says evenly, though he’s staring at him with just the slightest bit of urgency, eyes flickering over his shoulder after a moment. “Perhaps you should take this.”

“But if I don’t say it now, who _knows_ when I’ll get the chance.”

He doesn’t get the chance right then, either, because he’s interrupted again by the same stranger trying to pry his way between them. “I’m _talkin’_ to you, pipsqueak!”

“Look, back off, buddy!” Caspar snaps suddenly, turning to the guy and throwing an arm behind him, gesturing at Linhardt. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of somethi—”

“Caspar!”

He stumbles back, throwing a hand up to cover his mouth and tasting copper on his tongue, his head swimming from the force of the punch thrown at him. He regains his balance quickly, shooting a glare up at the man looming over him. 

“What the hell was that for?!”

“I said—” Hands grasp his collar and Caspar comes face to face with a tall, wide farmer type rivaling Raphael in height. His face is twisted and ugly, snarl creasing his square jaw as he growls lowly, hot breath brushing Caspar’s face as he spits: “I’m _talkin’_ to you.” 

Caspar doesn’t need any further egging.

He winds his fist back and swings.

  
  


*******

  
  


**Step 7: When you’re ready, take the plunge.**

“Keep still.” Linhardt says softly.

They’re in the infirmary—curtains pushed away from the windows so the sunlight casts over the bed Caspar is sitting on, bruised and only a little bloody after the scrap. He can feel the tip of a finger slide from his temple to the apple of his cheek, the pull of a thin cut mending a stinging sensation deep within his skull—pins and needles beneath his skin too far in to reach. Linhardt soothes his discomfort with a cool, gentle wave of his magic, though, and before he knows it, nothing but a dull ache remains.

“Does it hurt?” 

“Nah, not so much,” Caspar sighs, leaning into a fleshy palm, Linhardt’s thumb stroking his cheek gently. He grins. “This is nothing. Besides, you saw what _he_ looked like.”

Linhardt attempts to press his lips into a tight line, but their twitching corners give him away. Just when Caspar thinks he’s starting to look a little too proud, he clears his throat and averts his gaze.

“Anyway, what was that man talking about?” Linhardt asks, tugging at Caspar’s sleeves in order to get him to lift his arms. “Something about you and his girl?” Thin brows furrow together as Linhardt helps him out of his under-armor, fingers pressing and prodding greenish-purple patches as he inspects his chest. “Very curious, if you ask me.”

“Ahaha—he must’ve had the wrong guy.” Caspar rubs nervously at his face, telling himself that the knotting in his chest is from all the magic getting pumped into him—nothing else. Linhardt doesn’t seem put off by his behavior, simply taking care of each laceration he sees amongst the bruises before circling the bed to get to his back.

“I see,” he says quietly, and Caspar can feel his cold hands on his shoulders, calming the fire his wounds pull beneath the surface of his skin. “At the very least, he should’ve correctly verified his target. It’s outrageous that he would go so far as to start a fight with the wrong person.”

Caspar forces out a laugh. “Yep. He had it _totally_ wrong...”

“Hmm.”

The careful fingers tending to his back fall away and Linhardt’s examining hums, the click of his tongue fades to silence. Caspar immediately feels guilty for lying. That big guy was definitely the girl from the ring stand’s boyfriend and, thinking back on it, she probably thought he was making a move on her or something. 

Why wouldn’t she have?

He told her he’d buy her a whole new ring if she got rid of the one she was wearing!

And then there was that group of squealing girls...

“Agh—just forget it!” Caspar throws his arms up in the air with an exasperated huff. “He didn’t get the wrong guy, I’m the right guy!” He begins running his hands through his hair before digging the heel of one into a screwed-shut eye, the other waving about. “I kind of held her hand and bought her a ring and I think she took it the wrong way—but I just wanted what was on _her_ finger!”

Groaning into his hands, he shakes his head, thinking about how shitty his week’s gone. He’s just trying to do one thing—one seemingly _simple_ thing—but it’s like everyone and the freaking _goddess_ is trying to get in his way! He just wants to be _ready_ for once; even though he’s _always_ been ready, it's just never _felt_ like it with everything that ends up happening every time he opens his mouth—

“I just wanted her ring.”

But he guesses it’s as good a time as any, since he’s more than blown his cover this time.

“Because...” Caspar’s voice becomes soft as he sighs, eyes closing because right now he can’t afford to deal with another distraction.

He tries again. 

“Because I want to ask you to marry me.” 

Silence follows.

Slowly, he opens one of his eyes only to have them both blow wide with surprise. Manuela stands before him with a mirrored expression on her face, a few unmarked flasks and flat-bottomed tubes in her hands.

“Oh, my,” she says mirthfully, smiling as she sets the bottles down on one of the tables. “I think I’m just a _little_ too old for you, Caspar.”

“Professor Manuela?” Caspar shoots her a confused stare, turning to look behind him before swinging his head back around. “Where’s Linhardt?”

Just as her eyes light up in understanding, Linhardt appears at her side.

“Alright, sorry I left. I just needed to get the right salve from the supply room. You’ve got quite the bruises forming,” he says casually, smiling Caspar’s way without a care in the world. “They must’ve been from when Anna threw you into the wall for knocking over her stand during the fight.” Linhardt pauses for a moment, seemingly just having noticed the other person in the room; he stares up at her with brows raised ever so slightly. “Oh, hello, Professor Manuela.”

The silence that follows is deafening, Caspar thinks, and everyone except for Linhardt notices. For a long moment, he tries to remember just when Linhardt had even left the room, his lies and his truths only distanced by a handful of seconds at most. It could’ve been longer with how much he’d been spacing out—he doesn’t know.

What really matters now is that everything he finally had the guts to say was heard by the _wrong_ person— _who looks like she isn’t sure she should even be in her own infirmary right now!_

“Anyway,” Linhardt says suddenly, walking back over to the bed, blissfully ignorant. “Lie on your stomach so I can get those bruises.”

Caspar grabs the nearest pillow, shoves it onto his face, and screams.

  
  


*******

  
  


**Congratulations—you’re engaged!**

“We are not engaged.”

“Oh, Caspar—you’re already _married,_ then _?”_ Mercedes claps her hands together, her smile so radiant that he almost feels bad that it isn’t true. “I’m so happy for you!”

“No, I mean—me and Linhardt—we’re not engaged,” Caspar sighs, averting his gaze as he cards through his hair. “Or married.”

“I don’t understand...” she says softly before her eyes go steel shield wide. “Don’t tell me he’s engaged to someone else!”

“No!” A long pause follows his shout, so loud that it’s captured the attention of the bystanders heading across the bridge to the cathedral. Caspar turns away from their curious glances, eyes downcast as he reaches up to rub at the back of his head. “It’s just... a long story, Mercedes.”

“I see.” Mercedes’s concerned frown melts into a sympathetic smile, her hands clasping together in front of her as she takes a step forward in an attempt to keep their conversation to themselves. Despite how close she is, Caspar takes comfort in her presence, as though she carries with her a little bit of that soothing absolution the church gives its people. “Well, you plan to get engaged, right?”

“Yeah, but...”

“Then consider this an early congratulations!” Mercedes’s voice, her sweet grin, her shining light, is usually more than enough to brighten anyone’s day. Caspar doesn’t feel soothed by her gentleness, however, and she picks up on that quickly, doing her best to console him with words instead. “I’m sure whatever happened in this long story is just a temporary hiccup. It’ll work itself out, I’m sure of it.”

“Thanks.”

Mercedes takes his dampening mood in stride, her expression just as jovial as it was when she hurried over to congratulate him, reaching up to pat his cheek with all the affection of an older sister. “Now, how about some treats? I’ve got an hour or two on my hands and you look like you could use a pick me up.” 

Caspar shrugs, giving her a rather sorry excuse of a smile.

“I think I’ll take you up on that.”

**Congratulations—you are... engaged?**

Treats don’t do much to improve his mood.

He’s chomping on a tartlet Mercedes made for him, a flaky pastry with a sugary custard filling, but he can’t really seem to enjoy it. At any other time, he probably would’ve talked her ear off about how delicious it is, how he could eat about ten more before he ends up doing just that. But he can’t—it’s impossible.

Because everyone keeps congratulating him on his engagement that _still hasn’t_ **_happened_ ** _._

Caspar groans at the thought.

Everywhere he goes there’s another person singing praise, a hand on his shoulder, all these questions about dates and colors and who he plans on asking to be his best man—it’s driving him crazy! Not to mention that he doesn’t want anyone spilling the beans to Linhardt before he even gets to do it himself, so he’s been correcting whoever comes up to him with the same three words.

“Congrats on the engagement, Caspar!” 

“We’re not engaged,” he says flatly, shoving the last of his tart into his mouth. 

“Oh...” Bernadetta’s smile doesn’t last, a troubled expression accompanying the scratching of a quill across the page of a journal she pulled out of Sothis-knows-where. She closes it into the book once she’s finished, holding them both to her chest. “I-I’m so sorry! You got rejected, didn’t you? Even though angst is absolutely essential to any romantic tale, it’s so painful for the reader—”

“Bernadetta, what the heck are you talking about?” Caspar stares at her curiously. “The reader?”

“Well, it’s just that you and Linhardt have always had the perfect childhood friends to lovers romance!” Bernadetta states matter-of-factly, shrinking back when Caspar flinches at her sudden exclamation. “Oh—oh, no...” Her voice trembles, suddenly far quieter than it had been just moments before, and she slowly looks up at Caspar with the likeness of a hunted rabbit. “I’ve _offended_ you, haven’t I?”

“What, no—”

“It’s because you got rejected and I’ve rubbed salt in the wound—I’m _horrible!_ ”

“Caspar!” 

Bernadetta screams at the sudden interruption, raising her book to cover her face as she backs away from the intruder. It’s only Ferdinand. Somehow, that only seems to put her more on edge, and the startled noises pouring out of her mouth becomes rapid prattling, which eventually winds into stunned silence. 

Ferdinand gives her a bewildered look. “Are you alright—?”

“I—I’m _so_ **_sorry_ ** _,_ Caspar!” Bernadetta shoves past him, book under her arm and hand shoved onto her face as she scrambles in the direction of the dormitories.

They watch after her, baffled.

“Oh my,” Ferdinand says after a moment. “What was that about?” 

Caspar snorts. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I see.” Shaking his head, Ferdinand regards him with a smile, and Caspar already knows what to expect. “Well, a more pressing matter; you did not tell me your date was to lead to you and Linhardt’s engagement! You have my blessings.”

“That’s great, but we’re not actually engaged.”

“You are not? But I had heard—”

“Well,” Caspar sighs, “you heard wrong, okay?” 

“Did something happen between you and Linhardt?”

“No!” He shouts, voice cracking. “No, it’s just...” Looking up, he sees nothing but pity and confusion on Ferdinand’s face and just the fact that everyone’s assuming the worst about his and Linhardt’s relationship makes him want to scream.

He settles for an agitated growl, waving his arms dismissively at Ferdinand before stomping away. 

“ _Agh_ —just forget it!” 

**Congratulations! You’re** **_really_** **—**

“‘Caspar, congratulations,’ they say.”

A frown. 

“‘Caspar, I’m so happy for you!’” 

A huff, and then, mimicking Raphael’s booming voice: 

“‘Caspar, will there be _cake?_ ’”

He lets out an annoyed grunt, pausing his stride just to stomp his boot into the ground. “I swear, if someone says my name one more time—”

“Caspar?”

Turning on his heel, Caspar screams with all the intensity of a battlecry. 

“Look, _we’re_ **_not_ ** _engaged,_ o—‘kay...” His voice tapers in volume, and he bows his head suddenly, apologetically, the last person he expects to see staring down at him in surprise. Caspar rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry. I, uhm, didn’t mean to yell at you.”

Linhardt keeps quiet until he looks back up, that puzzled gaze watching him for a long moment before pink lips part as if to say something. They don’t, not for another few seconds; Linhardt’s brows knit together, a sigh escaping him.

“Caspar, what’s been going on with you?” He asks, lips curling into a frown. “You’ve been acting strange all week—it’s very confusing.”

“Oh, _you’re_ confused—? _I’m_ confused!” Caspar sucks in a breath of air. He’s at his limit with all of this running around, all of this planning for nothing—all of this _try-failing_ and _almost-never-actually_ getting to drop to one knee and ask Linhardt to marry him. It shouldn’t be this hard! “What in the goddess’s freakin’ name did I do to deserve this? Am I being punished or something?”

“Now, why do you say that?”

“Because!” Shoving his hands into his hair, Caspar thinks he’s finally lost it. “ _Every time_ I try to ask you to marry me, something happens!”

“Marry you?” 

“ _Yes?_ ” Caspar gawks at him incredulously, hands waving every which way. “I’ve only been trying to ask all week!” 

“I had no idea,” Linhardt admits, a skeptical look on his face, and Caspar has to hold back the desire to jump into the nearest body of water and drown. Instead of giving into the urge, he rubs at his face, trying to calm his feelings of distress. 

It doesn’t work.

“How?!” Caspar spreads his arms out. “We went on that romantic date!”

“Going out on an excursion has never been something new,” Linhardt says mirthfully.

“And everyone’s been _congratulating_ you.” 

“On a recent advancement I made in my research last week.”

At that, Caspar pulls at his own hair. 

“The ring that just _appeared_ on your finger one day?” He stresses, pointing at Linhardt’s left hand. “The _ring?!”_

“Oh,” Linhardt says, unmoved. “I just assumed we were already married.”

“ _WHAT—?”_ Huff, sputter, inhale. _“How—?!_ How could you have thought that was possible? We haven’t even had a _wedding!_ ”

A quiet ‘ah’ follows, those sullen blue eyes Caspar loves widening as though they’re witnessing a crest-related breakthrough. “We haven’t...”

“ _No?!_ ”

“Well...” Linhardt begins, assuming a contemplative stance, thumb beneath his jaw like so. “Seeing as I flit in and out of consciousness on a daily basis, it _could_ have just been a dream...”

“Seriously?” _Seriously?!_ “You _dreamt_ our wedding—?” Caspar takes pause suddenly, averting his gaze. “Wait, you’ve uh.” He rubs at his neck, flustered. “You dreamt our wedding? As in, you dream about... us getting married?”

“Caspar, you say that as if you believe I wouldn’t want to marry you.” 

“Well, yeah, but—” Caspar cuts himself off, eyes going wide as he blinks up at Linhardt in disbelief. “You _want_ to marry me?”

“I have no idea why you’re so surprised,” Linhardt sighs, though he’s smiling. And in just a few short steps, he’s draped over Caspar’s shoulders, pressing a gentle kiss to his brow. “I think you’ve been stressing yourself out over nothing for a little too long.”

“It’s just—you’re not very easy to read, you know!” 

“Caspar, I think we both know that I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t want the same things you do. You are the only person I would cast everything aside for, conscious or not,” he says reassuringly, looking down at his ring with an affectionate smile. “I’m guessing you decided to put it on while I was sleeping?”

“Yeah... sorry.” Caspar flushes in embarrassment, staring up into amused blue eyes. Even at his expense, he gets lost in them for a moment before realizing that he’s right where he’s tried to be all week. Free of interruptions. And despite Linhardt already knowing his intentions, he wants to make them perfectly clear. Caspar feels robbed of his proposal—all his fault, by the way—but he doesn’t feel the least bit unlucky, not when he’s standing next to the person he loves most.

“What is it?” Linhardt says mirthfully, loosely curled fingers hiding his lips.

Taking that fair hand in his, Caspar brings it to his chest, sighing as his expression relaxes a little. After everything he’s been through this week, he doesn’t think he should be the least bit anxious, but his heart still ends up pounding against his chest and his nerves are on end. 

Still, he wants to say it out loud.

“Linhardt, I wanna marry you.”

“And you will.” 

Caspar just doesn’t expect it to go so well.

“Wh—really?!”

“Really.”

He isn’t sure if it’s the way Linhardt says it, matter-of-factly and with a heart-wrenching amount of certainty, or if it’s just the fact that his answer came so easily—but Caspar suddenly throws his head back in hysterical laughter. 

He can’t believe it.

He _really_ can’t believe it.

Shoulders shaking uncontrollably, he laughs until he can’t breathe, until he’s able to let out an embarrassingly loud victory shout—fists shaking up and down and a string of incomprehensible yesses shooting from his mouth at top speed. Caspar knows he must look like a madman, but when he sees Linhardt’s brows draw together and his lips twitch upward into a smile, he can’t bring himself to care.

It only confirms his desire to be with Linhardt forever.

Wrapping his arms around Linhardt's waist, Caspar pulls him in close, every word he says laced with excitement. “I can’t believe we’re going to get married! We have to tell Dorothea—we have to tell _everyone!_ ” 

Linhardt finally laughs himself—an airy, charming sound in the aftermath of deafening hysterics—and he leans forward to press a soft kiss to the corner of Caspar's mouth.

“Yes, we can do whatever you like—right after a nice, long nap,” he promises, stifling a yawn when Caspar stares up at him sulkily. He lays his hands on two strong shoulders, fingers sliding slowly around Caspar’s neck. “This has all been _very_ exhausting.”

“You wanna sleep? _Now?_ ” A pause, and then: “Wait, are you saying...?”

Linhardt smiles and Caspar’s body buzzes with anticipation.

“I’ll even let you carry me over the threshold in true groomlike fashion.”

And really, how can he say ‘no’ to _that?_

**Author's Note:**

>  _Congratulations—this time you're REALLY engaged!_  
>   
>  The Perfect Proposal, otherwise called A Tentative Guide to Love by Dorothea Arnault, will now be taking questions from the audience. 
> 
> Q: Will Dorothea finally confess to Edelgard?
> 
> A: Call me back post-war for the details. Though, I'm sure you know it will probably happen.
> 
> Q: Whatever happened to Marketplace Girl and Angery Boyfriend?
> 
> A: They lived happily ever after. Mad BF accepted this small misunderstanding into his heart and now tells his friends that he bought the Galatea emerald. They're all very impressed and their wives are very jealous.
> 
> Q: Why wasn't Linhardt the one to propose?
> 
> A: Because if he was, this fic would've only been 200 words, let's be honest.
> 
>   
> [twitter.](https://twitter.com/birdsandivory)


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